Sunday, September 23, 2007


The purveyor of distortion
Masterfully works his art
Poisonous intentions
Dissolve purity of the heart

The unraveling of souls
Barely makes a sound
As do hopeful dreams
Lying prostrate on the ground

Exploiting cracks in armor
His twisted expertise
No need for gaping holes
Simply weakness of a crease

Gnarled fingers grip the victim
Bewildered by his charm
Whispering sweetly in the ear
Wary conscience to disarm

Massaging of the bed
To accept deceitful seeds
Promoting sense of self
While loathing others needs

Incapable of reign
Solely on his own
Resourcefully converting organs
Into worthless chunks of stone

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