He squares off against the fire,
a blaze which gives no light,
dwarfed by the flaming spires,
Frozen by the heat of the night...
Twisted shape in the mirror
Broken body in the race
sip you from this cup of sweet terror
the mirror it holds his non-face
a hand reaches out and is empty
cold to comfort and spell
the flaming spires of darkness
the heart of this personal Hell.
So dance while you can wicked gypsies,
Bring the whilrling dervish to sweep.
Deathpoet's write not for beauty,
but for beauty that once bound, now weeps.
