|An affinity with death|
An affinity with death
They say that I possess
I take the songs that widows wrote
And with them take their breaths.
White lips caress the bitter ends of legacies that sorrow feign
This needle injects this acrid drug that helps to cease the pain.
The babies cry in silent graves reaching for their mother’s wake
As I mock the mourning mass whose pieties they fake
They say this muse that I abuse is violent to the core
Yet they pretend like it’s the end as they repent to the sullied whore
That is the bread and is the life of fidelity paid at a price
Prisoners of their own device
The sanctity is breached in a world with no cost
No one cares for the deeds we must heed to resurrect the lost
This knife abides to my glorious prize of relief beyond the grave
I adhere to nothing and see the black as this low begins to cave
One more hit and this is it my morose end to a realm within
Where the widows writhe and babies cry in the place where I’ll begin.
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