The darkness of your frame
The stealing of the night
The fork of your tongue
Marks harsh the words that fly.
Burnt cinder of thought
In the aftermath of your reign,
I count the claps of sound
Again again again
Smell of burnt skin, a taste of iron
In the mouth, closeness that smothers
North West East and South.
The deafening diminishes
you kiss the pain,
Again again again
Power overwhelming melds me to your side
Me myself I, have no pride.
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