Burn, baby, burn

silver-tongued affections burn with appraisal;

the deepest shade of love burns with an autumn’s beauty

and the intricate, dream weaver

of lies–feeds the black widow

who lies in wait, for the men and women

who thrill on the treacherous age of

the awakening and shifty conscious.

Deep rooted, terra-tethered to rotting filth

of fermented tales of wasteful woe,

may the ones who

feed off the broken eyes of his or her victims

burn–

the modern day incubus/succbus–

sucking at the dreams and hopes of others

they dress themselves in the tears of their victims–

coated in slick grief and insidious passions,

they spread their folklore of lies

bards of the new degree–

they practice their craft

with a Monsieur Meursault ease

and a Victor Frankenstein archaic ambition.

The festering wounds they leave

spreads like a republican wildfire–

leaving disbelief and empty eyes in its wake.

Once again,

may the liars who are currently

perfecting their craft–

burn, baby, burn.