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 By Glenn McCrary © 2011 (All rights reserved)