You Did

For how long must I be
Haunted by images of thee?
When you came to me
I let bygones and secrets be.
For things you took
And cowards by cringe, yet look
Not to me now as strange crook.
Hands still, now in darkest book.
I lay prone to thee that earned
Misguided trust now spurned.
For calloused lips I did not yearn,
Nor roughing hands could I be turned.
Unfaith is here to devils deman
Lay stinking, rotting in thine hand.