Tyrant Supreme

ripped asunder
and
split,
into a thousand
wants, flagrant
in their desire,

the thrill
of loss
burns vengefully,
like
an orgasm
leached artfully
from an unsuspecting lover.



yet,
the dance persists.


urged on
by singed memories
of those stolen moments,
we sacrifice still:
soul
and fire;
magic
and gold;

all,
to the false gods
of hope,
destiny,
and
love.

come with me,
angel
of the night,
and let us be free
of this misplaced oblivion.

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