The irony...

People love hearing the way rhyme rolls off of the tip of my tongue, just before I sensually purse a lit cigarette between my red smeared lips. One more blissful inhalation, allowing the toxic tar to creep through my bronchial tubes and into the abused tissue of my lungs, filling it with the unclean oxygen that feeds my blood.

The world slows down as I'm embraced by the sweet satisfaction of enabled addiction. I exhale with closed eyes whilst subtly swaying to the rhythm of the acoustic melody that entrances everyone listening to me describe the bloody, red roses of Hell.

This is a poem about saturating the forest floor with the blood of my enemies. How they hang in somber anticipation of a ritual knife gliding across the soft skin of their necks and drenching the soil with the contents of their souls.

The blood gravitationally flows through the dark depths of the earth until it reaches the Underworld, where the Goddess collects it in a golden goblet and carries it to the table for the feast to begin.

The gods rejoice as I smear the bloody mud across my cheeks and decorate my walls with Norse runes to awaken my magick in preparation for the waning moon ritual I'll do to feed my power over the wicked creatures in my shadow.

"They will never regain control," I whisper, killing my cigarette.