That sword felt so nice swinging around
I felt like a king
I wielded that sword like a god
My throne sat on top of my conquests
Piled high like the spoils after a war
and the smoke still coming up from the ground.
Little did I know that my sword was sharpened on the other side
And every time I sliced my way to another smile
The pull back cut me, little by little
Like death by a thousand cuts.
My throne now drenched in my own blood
I stare at my soul shredded by my own hand
Blood dripping and staining my conquered possessions
making them worthless.
The height of my throne is now my prison of solace
I was above everyone but now I am away from everyone
No ladder, no rope, I might as well be in a dungeon
And my riches have no voice to keep my company.
I bleed to death now, no screams, no tears
No one to see them, no one to hear them
To become an inanimate object
Added to the pile.
9-8-2011
No comments:
Post a Comment