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Even a worm will turn
Etch not onto her pliant flesh,
Cruel marks of your monstrous desire.
She bears your atrocities,
With silent rage,
Waiting to unleash her wrath.
Claws gnashing at her soul,
With an ego like a hill,
A temper like a mountain.
She awaits your arrival,
An arrival of future blood.
Sweat, and
No tears will she shed.
No woman, no cry.
A pot placed on a simmering stove,
Innocence and purity cooking inside,
That soon you will devour.
You come with your posture of evil,
And evil you did.
You bare your teeth,
You bare those claws.
The pot boils over in the heat of the fight,
And her claws are sharper.
Her claws slice through flesh,
Like the meat she prepares for dinner.
She has become the butcher,
And you, the helpless pork.
A mirrored reflection,
Of a tempestuous sea,
To prove that
There is strength in the meek.
Like Joan of Arc
An angel can burn,
And a worm can turn.
© Myth
Cruel marks of your monstrous desire.
She bears your atrocities,
With silent rage,
Waiting to unleash her wrath.
Claws gnashing at her soul,
With an ego like a hill,
A temper like a mountain.
She awaits your arrival,
An arrival of future blood.
Sweat, and
No tears will she shed.
No woman, no cry.
A pot placed on a simmering stove,
Innocence and purity cooking inside,
That soon you will devour.
You come with your posture of evil,
And evil you did.
You bare your teeth,
You bare those claws.
The pot boils over in the heat of the fight,
And her claws are sharper.
Her claws slice through flesh,
Like the meat she prepares for dinner.
She has become the butcher,
And you, the helpless pork.
A mirrored reflection,
Of a tempestuous sea,
To prove that
There is strength in the meek.
Like Joan of Arc
An angel can burn,
And a worm can turn.
© Myth
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