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The Madman, "Yes, three days, three centuries, three aeons. Strange they would always weigh and measure. It is always a sundial and a pair of scales."

Monday, December 20, 2010


The pseudo-valiant howls of the Wise Wolves
That sent mountains into manic spasms conceded,
Silent meditation took over.
Shamelessly shaking heads
And sighs of despair
Marked the last-ever beginning.
It was impending, it was inevitable
And now it was time for the verdict.
No one could forget
But then
Who would remain to tell?

Soft hypocrite stars
Were entangled in her sulking braid,
A punishment for showering light
On the gruesome playground
Where she was made to play Gladiator.

Blanketed in the bitter fog of her breath
That corrodes the elements
With acid-black sadism,
The Earth is weathered and soul-less,
Cleansed of Evil.
Nothing left for Doom to conquer.

The moon was a skeleton
Of all that she coveted,
Her idea of a prize to be possessed.
Caught midway its ancient cycle
Trapped in her unrelenting stare
It lies now
In her cold rough caress
Kissed and gorged
Stifled and mute
Raped by her chaotic madness,
Victim of a crushed heart.

Cowardly patrons imprisoned,
The unrepentant oppressor fittingly slaughtered,
The prize claimed and ruined,
She has won,
She is Revolution.
Leaving a void that’s asking
Can blood-red Revenge deliver justice?

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