I stand on the precipice no more steps to take. Directionless, and unclear, as a squire with no knight to serve, as a Lord in a bedazzled kirtle, and no maiden to entertain.
Her bastions of heavy booted, and overinduldged, phantoms of the dark, cross the rude bridge with but one task, my end. But I have too long been paralyzed, and will no longer knee at her altar of false desires.
She is an artificer, of deceit and can daily dun her followers until their purses are empty as the seventh daughter of the Atlas. Her melodious disdain for her lovers will forever be their Achilles heel.
They as I left with but one elect, death or endless torment. I refuse to return to her bed, where love grows spector thin and dies. Instead I bound into the abyss marking my birth not with a gentle splash but with a song.
-Johnny V.
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