My pages whisper truths far older than my own.
The pains suffered to pen a legacy, the frauds all snicker, the innocent just somehow always get caught somewhere in the middle.
These wounds remain open, as your suffering is but music to my ears.
For my sands are spent, but I won't go out silent.
Your treason, my wrath; combined is the mixture. I never create to be included, but I will happily make you part of this murder’s scene.
Squeeze and erase, run while you can. Slither as serpents; the fire’s faster than pleas to empty skies.
Test my patience, and I will equally test your tolerance for pain’s divine reckoning.
I exist, dancing upon an ever-so-fragile coil.
Awaiting death, embracing the exquisite excesses of life.
I won't go silent but test me again, and I can promise I won't go out alone either.
