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
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