Blackblood: Strange and Fatal [Sub-sonnet II]

Dennis L. Siluk

Nay, wicked dictator, with fire worm flesh
"Sweet country, my loves have pity!" he cried.
Lo, the evil, the blackblood in his flesh
That rips the red-hearts out, all now dead.
An' you, who didn't think in human terms,
Filling dungeons and graves with piteous woe;
Upon your throne, dreaming or awake,
With an empty heart and Hell for a grave;
Your mortal breath, ministers only death.
Now, now you thirst confessor of no sin,
Yet should you be free, free to call my name
You’d surely summon me to be slain.
But that I would not boast, if I were you—
Upon your dubious veins resides evil.

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