La Dispute

(Crows, wipe the blood from the end of your claws. said the vulture, Lets gather like storms for the war.
Crows, as the night turns its skin into coal, Dark as corpses but cluttered with gold. They will label you thieves, wolves, and whores but you are nothing less than angels, cast down and covered in black.)
Aint this the bloodiest mess in the world? said the virgin, a torn little girl.
Boy, you went and made a sweet wreck of my soul, and Ive already forgiven you.
And blood was running down
Her dress in streams into her hands where she
Was stitching on the flesh hed left
In sections on the carpet near a bed that
Never slept while she was sleeping
In her clothes that he had laid with on
The floor with all his fingers crossed
In hoping that that distance
Wouldnt grow.