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Tuesday, 30 April 2013
The Dark Oath
harrowing, you might say,
seeing all that blood run out of me
thin and watery,
Not blood that I might recognise
as being mine,
yet knowing it
as blood drawn from my very marrow
by those foul grubs,
those slaves of Satan.
I saw all this,
but could not guess
the depths to which my tattered soul
was being dragged,
how spirit can be borrowed
for a wickedness so rare
that one must either
march beneath its flag
or take the oath that leads --
as it has now led me --
to ultimate destruction.
Written for The Sunday Whirl #106