That Sick Race Called Men

I saw what you did, or you didn't do, as the question may well be.

Hah,
infatuation, was the sick besotted stall,
that tethered her up to your beckon call.
That word: enthral,
or enthralling as that's not enough of it all.

Darling,
or perhaps that's not my term to call you,
so consider this from her-side, her point of view?
If she wasn't so un-collected, so ripped into.

Please,
if I could beg you enough to leave her alone,
perhaps her nails won’t find faith among her finger bone,
quite so often; as she doesn't moan
-anymore.

Surely,
that's enough indulgence of putridity,
to let you knowingly,
leave her, in sympathy?

You can,
and you know it. What is decaying with her,
that you haven't already molested,
contested,
infested?
In that regiment you arrested,
all that was left sleeping in her
afraid,
of me, and her friends,
the ones that paid

the 3 months of sour grafting,
to even lynch her back to where she'd played,
before you swathed her up laughing.