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