The spear thrusted through the chest
The breath of hope, aghast
Bubbled out in regression
The cloud of dismay, surmounted
A silhoutte of redemption gone afar
The door that once stood ajar
Now cleansed shut to the face
The gravity of consequence
Now, bewailing in the prime
"It wasn't you
It was me
There is no hope
But to set free"
Abandoned by wretched sanity
Left ensnared in the pile of flesh
Feeding on the burning anger
Hatred is starting to breed.
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