Masochist Mine

Loneliness is a moon-kissed clearing,

Sweetest sorrow softly nearing,

Home long lost or never found,

Winsome heart bereft of sound,

Twisted tongue and quickened mind,

Sever bindings to like kind,

Tear-stained mirror, empty bed,

Feeds the loathing in the head,

Whomever was is now not,

The soul spoon-fed mind’s masochistic rot,

Whether hither, thither, or far besides,

Matters little to the flagellates hide,

Shall this pain now ever end?

Can hate-weakened minds contend?

Is the sorrow in the offing?

If behind their hands they’re scoffing?

At this twisted heart that beats,

Ever slower in the beast,

That I have now yet become,

Now that the deed is gruesome done

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