20101008

Wick

Longing for the garrote
snuffers in thyre hilts
hear no song of mourning
as the kindl'ng grasses wilt.

Ev'ry vile claim expounded
each knobby finger raised
claws stripped away mine bodice
mine life of all its days.

Thou shalt not suffer me to live
for I abhor the Lord
for lyblac and morthdaeds
this candle burns no more

I cast mine eyes to the sky
whilst smoke obscure mine sight
as the flames engulf my pith
bright blue turns black as night.

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