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lynn

2021-04-01 11:42 pm
sycophantic silhouette
stalks into the room and
the woman who casts it brings death, immortal doom
she bids disguise fall when the man sees her though
never a dame, but bluegreenbrown eyes, same as you

you, who lives their life by ritual, routine
will never see the cold, red blood or the glistening sheen of
sweat on the brow of a new, soft corpse
or the embers of the flame that drive you north
your cadence keeps you pliant, your rhyme bids you no further!
what drove you to this, to poetry, to murder?

as the blade bids adieu through the back of his skull
and the red of his head grows increasingly dull
and the light bleeds out of the sword in his eye
‘any woman can see him orgasm, but how many see him die?’

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