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Murder Poems

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O, to be suffocated to Death by silver threads around your throat, woven just for you, my love! 

Only those pray who do not know what they are standing up against. Or those, who have no fear of the inevitable left in them. 

What requires more courage than asking for something so close to your heart and risking that you would receive a no? The fearless ask, cowards take. The fearless, or those who have nothing left to lose. 

He has taken, before. Such a long time ago, he forgot what one does to measure the time. On his fingers, sometimes, he tries to estimate the sacrifices self-proclaimed martyrdom can claim. 

It is futile to believe that punishment will come on our own terms. History will pass the judgement whose brunt we must bear. 

Seeking martyrdom, he placed the evidence into other hands to be judged - only to be refused.

Rejected, when he would reach for Death by any means, his own hands, self-indulgent punishment for a self-indulgent crime - Death comes not. 

Instead, he is locked in the eternal prison cell of his mind, suffocating for release and desperate for more. Mere two hours to present his case. Never quite enough. Never quite the same. 

Will you then, blame the one who chokes on nothing but despair, for turning to all that he finds in his rotting mind, seeking that one final, endless dream. 

O, to be suffocated to Death by silver threads around your throat, woven just for you, my love! 

Prayer comes in many forms, to solicit, to plead, to negotiate that which is beyond your control. His comes in murder poems. An offering of admiration, neatly tied up with a leather bow at the neck. Crying out loud. To be noticed. 

A tale retold each night that may seem like a plea for understanding, judgment, retribution from a world outside his own. Not anymore. It is an ending he wants. Swift, or slow. 

And with the curtains drawn shut tight, murder poems are born at night, as he fingerpaints his prison walls red.  When a thousand daggers right through an Empress’s heart won’t make the perfect verse, when they won’t result in the perfect retribution, one needs to beckon Death into his own prison cell. 

At times, they say: let the beggar die, who came crawling to your estate. A thousand deaths are not worth a thousand lives when your prison is the Deathless emptiness. In life and Death, at least the pain is real. 

Stagnation is the most mundane punishment. As mundane as the blood always felt, rushing in his veins. Nothing in life. And never made it to Death. 

And at times, there’s only blood on the walls, not eloquent, hardly poetry. Desperate, it screams: I am jailed in the purgatory of my brain. Please come, and bail me out .

But there’s only silence. 

O, to be suffocated to Death by silver threads around your throat, woven just for you, my love!