Deathstrike

Across the horizon of thy backbone of virtue



A swarm of anonymous echoes plague the edges



With their nefarious opinions of envy



Coughing up conspiracies to



Blacken my image





Painting it to resemble a masterpiece



Of arcane betrayal and wicked misfortune



The holder of that paintbrush I pray for the day



When he enters his casket, his last breath to be





Nothing more than merely an obscure memory



Even in the dreadful caress of Lady Death



His words will be eaten as they incarcerate him



Within the mutual wounds that he once created





Happily I will bear witness as he writhes



In harrowing anguish to the symphony of death



No eulogies of admiration or exaltation



Shall ever surface before the masses





Simply because there were no lovely tales to be told



One shall cease to breathe before composing lies



And as the curtain closes this now deceased icon



Of revulsion shall find solace in where he truly belongs



For he was never human