In my ear something whispers, tells of tales of burning blisters,
forbids the haunting of my sisters, last of sons to bear our name.
Like fleas in whiskers- embedded splinters,
a Soul that's known too many Winters,
felt just one too many shivers-
puts my family crest to shame!
Sin of Sins is potential wasted, failure tasted on a daily basis.
Jaded thoughts in anger basted, long awaited signs of Truth.
My secrets naked, cut and pasted, Time to Space in cryo-stasis;
bring masks of faces, changing places, all I need to seize the proof!
In our nest found Viper eggs, Black Mamba mouth and Widow webs;
cobra fangs, Komodo legs, the sting of buried Scorpion.
Killer bees on murder sprees, venom- how it quickly spreads!
Such toxic bites, to my delight, end my role to be "the son".
My duty relieved, can freely breathe, no longer bound by obligation.
I now have need to craft and weave the lordly exit of earthly King.
So I take my leave, my goal achieved, looking for a grand reception-
I do believe my aching Heart, the Soul of Art- is my only precious thing!