Writer 2
-Miasma-
Beware of the Imp’s intoxicating speech
(His lungs exude an artisan poison).
Stay wary of its far, indoctrinating reach,
For it invades your heart and employs it.
He groans a skulking vaporous stimulant.
Condensing to a stream of seduction,
It begins as a serpentine rivulet,
And grows into a sea of corruption.
It’s an attractively perfumed suggestion.
Infectiously pestilent, sweet, malicious...
By inhalation, or through ingestion,
It spreads a sickness that seems delicious.
Do not ignore that sensation in your chest
(The indicator of iniquity).
The flash of preconceived guilt within your breast
Can be lost in distant antiquity.
Known to me now only after the carnage
Is this wretched beast of evil temptation.
A pawn in the scheme of his masterful harvest,
I have secured my fate of certain damnation.
He had breathed into my mind that miasmic gas.
I listened to the whispers -heeded the commands-
From my conscience he kept my actions masked.
The murders were a tasty, mischievious romance.
As I crouch among the strewn human wreckage
And as my conscience now becomes the witness,
In retrospect I can view the presage,
But it is much too late. I've succumbed to sickness.
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