Betrayer
Marc Mosko, 1996

Guns shoot bullets faster than
The speed of sound.
They tear flesh from body,
Leaving holes a quarter round.
Slugs pierce the heart, spilling
Blood to ground.
Death comes quickly, final,
Profound.

You work much more slowly,
Never a corpse to be found.
Your slaughtered are still living,
Hearts yearning for a round.
Although the life drained out quickly,
Palor in its stead,
Nothing tore my flesh away,
As I pleaded for that day.

Love, you betrayer,
You false and vicious god;
Love, you slayer,
More deadly than a gun.
You were my companion,
You were my heart's blood.
I am left here abandoned, drained,
Undone.