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As I stare in the mirror inside my head
And caress its weeping, salty cracks,
My vision goes (slowly) from blue to red;
My sacred inner world cold reality lacks.
For I stand, mute witness to your power,
And in your eyes passion and darkness see.
But your truth turns my shy blood sour;
Your perfect circle I could never be.
For I am your rope, your twisted noose.
I am the hunter from whom you run.
For you, I am just an elaborate ruse
To separate you from your personal sun.
But it is I, bleeding, godless and blind,
In need of your strength, your burning sight.
Where will I, my tourniquet find?
My losing battle, whom will fight?
So you run away, angry and fast,
Leaving me embalmed in your melancholic voice.
For we differ on whether it could really last,
And you took away my hesitant choice.
So I stopped running, and went the other way;
I heard you sobbing in the hungry forest.
Someday when we meet again, I will say,
In me, you should have cherished the goddess.
Servitas a Periculum
Servatis a Maleficum