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I used to give,
so, truly,
to, many,
undeserving hands.
But, their fingers,
bit, unruly,
a deathly,
gripping bite.
So fierce,
that, I could, never, understand.
The nail, poked,
so cruelly,
in, open wounds,
unmanned.
Fangs, tore flesh,
ripped, unduly,
with ferocious,
ripping might,
making, morsels,
of, a spirit, big, and, grand.

So, now, I guard,
my giving,
from, a watchtower,
in, the skies.
Protected, with prayers,
to, the benevolent unliving.
They’ve, no need,
for, sleep,
and, shine, essenced lights,
on, the unforgiving lies.
Their end, is, my
beginning.
Their misfortune,
is, my prize.
As, they remain,
forever, willing,
for, souls, and, se-
crets, to, keep.
Keeping, my keepsakes, close,
to, their chests, every, night.

© poormansdreams

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