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During civil disputes I’m a stabbing victor.



I use a quick strike as opposed to a constrictor.



I have little or no technicalities.



My close range confrontations end in fatalities.



In 1704 I was forged from metal.



It doesn’t take long for me to settle.



At the end of a gun is where I set.



My point is that I’m a bayonet.

You are calm and reposed.

Let your beauty unfold

Pale white like the skin stretched over your bones.

Spring keeps you ever close.

You are second hand smoke.

You are so fragile and thin.

Standing trial for your sins.

Holding onto yourself the best you can.

You are the smell before rain.

You are the blood in my veins.