Satan’s red anvil has been left on my chest,
and with vehement restraint I withhold my disgust.
A betrayal of faith and your pawn to become,
you will soon hear rendition of our fat lady’s song.

Little boy, last born and instigator of pain,
I guarantee you will suffer from this – your own mind-game.
The lines you draw boldly with your fury-filled fist,
are blurring under the crumbling weight of your tryst.

This is going to implode on itself by dint of decay,
and only your blurred vision will see you finish this your way.
There are no more white flags for me to want for– or from you,
your malice makes me know I’m done with this shit, we’re through.

Don’t ever forget how you fueled this poison and my disgust,
as you claim back your septic weight from off my chest.
A betrayal of faith, you’ll wish this pawn be sooner gone,
as you try block the chiming of our fat lady’s song.


© Dylan Balkind

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