by Nick Gisburne
My darkness died. I murdered it myself,
By killing those who took me for fool.
Abandoning the count beyond the twelfth,
I made them say my name, my only rule.
I’d rather try to tell you I was right
Than plead that I was never sound or sane.
The carnage was an absolute delight.
I revelled in the pleasure of their pain.
A monster, you can kill me, if you like,
But only once. The scores will never match.
It hurts you, like a dull, serrated spike,
A jagged hole, a pain you cannot patch.
Destroy me. Make me bleed, or beat me black,
But none of them is ever coming back.
