January 2, 2008

Wrath is the Devil's hand around my heart,
It squeezes tightly and overrides my thoughts,
I loose control, lash out as the Devil's hands become my own,
And I am left with that they wrought.

Wrath is the sanguinary taste of iron on the tongue,
A liquid touched with copper that like acid burns,
A residue that the demon hungers for,
And in desperation for the scarlet nectar, yearns.

Wrath is the crimson darkness,
The Medieval midnight created in the soul,
Wrath is the vice of cold fury,
That will burn till the world is naught but ash and coal.

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