The Maniac


Their foul stench, to me perfume, carried upon soft wind
transports my soul in fevered dreams I pray won’t end.
There I’ll go, a grinning fool, where better men
avoid, into a long forsaken glen.
Their sorrowful moans, sweet songs quite dear
—to all my peers a sound to fear—
I rejoin in manic shout:
To arms! To arms! And route!
These rotting corpses
learn my choice is
—Fight!—and win.
So sin’s

1 Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.