They whisper from their golden thrones,
And anger envelopes me.
Their words feed;
Like maggots on a rotting corpse.

Poking, Stinging, Burning flesh;
The wings, the fangs, the razor claws.
My soul deteriorates,
And Shadows devour.

The shift occurs,
And before I can conjure,
My feathered wings are ruptured;
My fiery blaze doused.

I stand condemned before the righteous ones,
The crown of thorns piercing tainted flesh.
Through cackling laughter and pointed fingers,
I pick my mark.

It is revenge that I seek;
And revenge I will gain.
I have sold my soul,
For the purpose of it.

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