A Pawn's Muse
Poem By Ro'in Mao
Thy bitterness, again to me it calls
With naughty fingers and so sweet a voice,
In-soaking all my heart's unsavoury galls
And gets to me enthralled—far gone is choice.
This tired game which I am forced to play
Stirs up all pyromaniacs' hellish ire.
The world shall split and all shall fall away
'Til nothing's left alive within the fire.
Need I to no end warble ‘bout it slack
The wretched, bloody airs of wrathful fate,
Or shall I ride the tapered iron track
‘Cross Nihil river through oblivion's gate?
O come! Let's leave for good this rotten hole,
Your ghostly hand in mine, my heart your soul!