The Informer


Danse Bacchanale

Drunkenly he sways back and forth,
With a bottle in one hand,
And a dagger in the other,
Insane and unsound,


He slashes those who stand in his way,
Piercing the flesh of innocent passers by,
Splashing blood that is pure onto the holy earth,
Staining his hands with shades of red,


He is a demented beast,
Who laughs and leers at the suffering cries of bystanders,
Who moans and groans at the sight of children playing in the gardens,
Who stamps and stomps on the bellies of pregnant mothers,


He is nothing but a worthless coward,
He cries at his own misery,
And spends long nights thinking about his past sins,
Unlike his outer bestial being,


In the shadows he curls and weeps,
He may seem strong and powerful,
But he's just a weakling,
A braggart who boasts lies and deceptions,

Poor thing,

You say that you are transcendent,
But you have a craven fear towards your own self,
You doubt your own abilities,
You cringe at your own flaws,

Poor thing,

A frail and enfeebled starling with a broken wing,
You have deviated too far,
You ventured out of your nest too early,
And now you have to pay.


Pay with your wings,
Pay with your freedom,
Pay with your senses,
Pay with your life.

By: Kei


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