He cries for her company, but she is sorrow's obedient mistress, and she prides her accomplishments. She is surrounded by the scent of immortal mist, and doth like the Janus mask plays the face of the destroyer and preserver at once.
He attends to her passion as she sits upon her canopied throne of gold. He, renders his unmannered essence, to her yet she denies him even despoiled bread. He must brook his inclination for her, she savors her skill with but a penny's stain of soot.
He like an imperfect frond will float on her sea of beguile, leaving him as direful as mice on a cave. As he sinks into the shoal of dampness left praying to her unremaining Gods. Powerless is he to deny her, so will turn to dust, less his fame. Whilst she joins with Surtr and consumes his stimulus.
-Johnny V.
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