Self Poem by Marlin Nightingale

Stood there beneath the ominous cloud,
Of selfish thoughts, like swords,
They kept their place standing face to face,
And drew their sharpest words.

He took his sword and the tip there-of,
And brandished its stinging edge,
With a simple shove, severed cords of love,
Already hung by thread.

The pain was a fiercely sudden thing,
For she wrenched in a groaning cry,
And the words of hate, that had cut his mate,
Were words that spoke a lie.

There he held aloft the sword of self,
And smirked neath a coat of pride,
And his gruesome snear, struck a chord of fear,
In the chest of the trembling bride.

Til at once, the wall of hatred fell,
Neath a glorious wave of love,
And he wept for grace with upturned face,
Asking mercy from above.