A quick verdict was formed in the pits of my gumption,
ignoring Alacrity's pleas that yelled “one more chance”,
eventually going mad, screaming shrill.
Akin a mushroom cloud, a portent of the End,
it rose and strode past a sore throat
who having fought and lost valiantly,
now all torn up, suppressed anathema beneath.
Scaling up the parched tongue whose roots seemed mercilessly ripped,
squeezing one letter out at a time through clenched teeth,
became finally free from me physically,
preparing to put me in Bastille,
before I could file for another appeal,
it declared, “I am through with you!” readily,
As always you weren’t there to hear them, or see
when at the end of the ruling, I raised the dagger
plunging it right back into me.
And now in the Red that pools underneath your feet,
feigning innocence you idly stand,
as if you weren't the willing accessory.