Tire of The Canopies
Sovereign or martyr thus gravitas none dolorous,
dirge has keyed the grave motif to your succubus,
organs glistening as the innards burst vile viscera,
to bite on carbon release hammers sledge Invictus.
Not impressive but knot is a slip on your own noose,
gathering to watch a struggle as the buckets kicked,
amusing when the rope snaps and the monster runs,
turns executioner hacks away your scurvy populace.
Digress thus invitation to a horrid melancholy siege,
maelstrom of pianist crescendo a litany reverie,
masquerade these fair maidens as whomever,
still a mask and the rest of your face is plain to see.
Dreams are made not to be accompanied by meanderings of creatures of the lesser deities for the reaper is the end to everything this your prayers will not save you from the scythe’s guillotine.
Enjoy your expendability,
know that I do,
with that I take my leave,
soaking to bathe and wash off your crimson grief.
Copyright © Beatrix Macabre | Year Posted 2024
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