Viricide II

What a mild vengeance...

You were always one of those, dealt a hand of gold

a stricken inbred nightmare plagued with virtue

betrayed by your own lover’s favorite perfume

a stinking, lying, a coughing uncontrolled

before your innocence was lost you were always quick to hold

I can't believe I never loved you

you rotten lovesick piece of trash, see this through

find a place to lie down, before my sinning makes you cold

I'll throw you from the aching sky

watch your tattered fingers, melting hearts fall

face a milk-shade paste with an ear pressed to glass

stitch your mouth, inside you keep those lies

invade your pretty head, make you a free-for-all

after the wedding is a funeral mass

Author's Note

This poem was written for my AP Modern European class in the form of a Petrarchian sonnet. I hope you enjoyed.