I will kill the cynic.
The living-dead man of poetry
A bastard son to emotion
His calling card is “sadness”
With a preference to the cliché
A rotten corpse of art
Turning back the pages.
To which his throne rest upon a mountain
Crafted by the hands of knowledge
A tower of burning books.
Never read and not worth reading.
He is a child to The Raven
Onto which he barely understands
A heretic of the Avant Garde
Wearing armor of sham
Crucify him on his dusty writing desk.
Tear back his tattooed flesh
Reveal the child inside
Hold her by your side
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