Sword

When the spark of passion dwindles,
my tree will wither.
I will cut the roots, its natural course,
snakes coil and slither.

Like the burning witches of Salem,
my skin screams and curses
At the faithful shrine of Jerusalem,
where all good men perverse.

My fingers tremble with impatience,
I look up to the Sun.
Relishing its warmth and radiance,
bloody remains of Verdun.

I cut my tree with a subtle knife.
For it is a duty.
Forfeiting all the pleasures of life,
the pursuit of beauty

Murder

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