They called me butcher, after slashing my eyes.
They called me killer, perpetrator of lies.
They called me purist, a hater of life.
They made me nasty, acrimonious strife.
But I am a visionary who is mistaken.
A god among the lost, forsaken.
Crucified by my inner power.
They hissed ; made me cower.
An architect amongst worms of man.
I see travesties that no one can.
A pile of blood where should be lives.
My psychosis was ignored by gregargious hives.
Victimisation of my greatness.
Let me be with bows of lateness.
Here we are, but will not be.
Protagonists of my great story.
I am the hero who remains unknown.
The sound that rips flesh from bone.
My genius the sight of ugly choosing.
My life, a miracle of lust-less losing.
© Copyright 2016 E M Lyng. All rights reserved.
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