Bathing with a sponge
In the blood of your brothers,
Taking comfort in the pillow
With the bones of your mother.
Can the darkness or the madness
Of my voices disappear
They tell me to kill you slowly
Will it take a month or a year?
The intensity of the slaughter
Relish the blood I spill
"Is it done? Is the prophecy fulfilled?"
Even the voices in my head tremble
With fearful trepidation,
All for what they saw in my little lair
My unnamed abominations.
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