Image by Iftekhar Uddin Emon from Pixabay 

In the Flames and fire of trauma,
In the Furnace of Aguish and Hatred.
Was forged the Sword I weild,
Impossible to unequip.
This sword is thirsty,
Thirsty for the blood of love,
Thirsty for the blood of Emotions.
This sword with it's mighty blow.
Beheads affection, Beheads care.
I, The one who weilds it,
Can't let go of it's grip.
Is the sword my master or I it's?
Have I grown fond of Its Power, Pleasure?
Have I grown fond of the taste of Blood?
This Sword talks to me,
It Is an Extension of the Rotten in me.
It Commands me to Butcher liars,traitors.
It is the Justice,the judge and the sentence.
This Sword is Merciless, brutal, Unforgiving.
O, mighty Blade Am I Weidling you,
Or you're Weidling Me?
Are you the one bowing to my command,
Or Do I bow to you?

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