Embers in the amygdala,
Rituals in the pizza parlour,
Stars upon the walk of fame,
Still won’t dare to speak the name,
Of the one who pulls their strings,
And delivers them the precious things.
He cooks grey matter with fiery dust,
Lit by fear and broken trust,
Carries with him a bag of tinder,
In case he spots the wunderkinder,
He’ll season them with powdered lies,
Fatten them to a decent size,
On molten gold and caviar,
Inflicting scars from afar,
Years hence, in the dead of night,
Down an alley, out of sight,
A cul-de-sac, no happy ending,
Just the sound of metal rending,
And angels singing from the bins,
Painting purgatory for their sins,
Dressed up nice in Burn and Lesion,
They know too well his name is _ _ _ _ _ _
To read a poem about a political assassination, click here.
To take a peek down a rabbit hole or two, click here.