The Lamenting Keepsake

The Lamenting Keepsake and its companion piece, The Wilting Rose in the Briar Patch, are dark fiction. Both unapologetically explore the mindset of a victim, who refuses to play the role any longer. 

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Mondkopf “Hades”

You shall surely suffer
In a manner unimaginable
The past is uninhabitable
And the future holds no narrative
Tongue wrenched out and lips sewn shut
Pain blinding, multifaceted
Comparative to that which no immortal can endure

This is no war
At least, not one worth you fighting for
You choose your battles most unwisely
Moth to flame you wander blindly
Try to leave and best believe that we shalt find thee
Riding forth with striking force
And no remorse worth dying for
This is no war
This is one-way ruination

Have been biding our time patiently
Observing our piteous subject while fending off vague boredom
Watching you compose your very own antemortem
Waiting while you sow your seeds of misdeed most complacently
Striving for the upper hand mistakenly
Already damned to fall with haste, ungraciously

Call yourself a messenger of death

Your soulless curse could mean not a thing less
No mortal language can express
The decrepitude of each address
Believe you’ve found a safe recess
When no such thing do you possess
Your trite existence reasonless
Powerless and meaningless

Drawing parting breath as you depart into a string of ghastly deaths
And from this waste of heart and soul bereft
There will be nothing left to consolidate
You paved your own path to the charred gates of hell
Deluded fleeted feet had served you well
O, how thy misappropriate
Feeble insubordinate
Equivocal to feather weight
About to excommunicate
For such hath long since been necessitated
By actions you facilitate

This is no war
At least, not the kind you were striving for
Conniving little clots like you
Hold no clue what they bargain for

Never underestimate those of love’s protectorate
For a love which is more than a love
Equates to very much the same in hate
Linger at the gate
And you will see our lust to separate
Putrid flesh from hollow bone
As we feast upon each sorrowful groan
And, with your guts, redecorate our throne room

It’s not too late to save yourself
Should you learn how to behave yourself
Then maybe bitter fate can be evaded
Regrettably, your journal pages will forever be yellow and faded
Voice perpetually confiscated
Eyes of vacant essence jaded
Eternally incarcerated
Aborted little baby cake
Our reverie your taunting wake
Doomed to be forever flaunted keepsake

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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