hysterics

The stench of your coward minutes
- eternities to us -
persists like the cheap cologne of a brothelgoer.

You lit our faces with the vengeful shine
of a lowly vengeful hatred
you wish to pass for heroic flame.

Rummaging into the rotten gums of thy fellow men,
you desperately want to become visionaries,
self-proclaimed wizards with staves that do shit-all,
but you know what? life can be cold
and stabbing caustic.

There's no hommage left but the one
you commission for yourselves, cunts.