At The Hands of Death Herself

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: February 01, 2013

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Submitted: February 01, 2013



You like it when I obey

When I don't ask questions

Or just question you.

You hate me as I am

But you love to make me feel

Nothing but pain and to suffer.

You yell at me

Your spit flying into my face

But I dare not flinch

Or suffer the wrath of a women's scorn.

You are a witch

Who is also a puppeteer

Pulling and tugging at my stings

Even as my spine snaps

As blood trinkles from my wrists

As you drag my soul across the rug

Burning me as your the roast master

My mistress in living and in death.

You get a kick out of my soul crying

Out to the heaven's

When I belong to the devil himself

With God turning his back on humanity

For we have disgraced his very presence

With our filth

Our dirt and gritty souls claiming peace

And all the while you continue to pull the strings

Sweat appearing under thy brow

'Til finally I fall dead

Straight into your arms

For you are the grim reaper

You are death

You are Keres herself

And only gain peace

From the death and distruction of others

When they leave this world without

Such a graceful thing as peace.

It is gone,

Having left by the side of God

Whom has condemned this world

To burn in anguish 

And freeze in bitterness.

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