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Dancing with the Mistress of Murder
Taking the invitation lightly, gliding across the floor, ignoring the skulls glaring with glassy eyes on the ground.
Hand in hand the hilt of the knife awaiting your command, waiting to take another life, another round because the punch bowl's empty.
The candle flickers as it watches it's sister's illustrious flames licking at the charred finish, only the handle is shoved in the eyesocket of the beholder.
It truly is the end of their world, as you stomp on eyerything they held, their pride is worn as trophies around your neck.
They come back, bring you down, choking you with your favoured crown, the rubies once frozen with fear melt down onto your eyelids sealing them shut forever.
No worries, the mistress smiles upon you with her lipstick that curves around like the demons horns, a forewarning you should not have ignored.
Oblivious to your surroundings, you were never too bright, she will take your hand, and leave you in your night.
Wandering in your own oblivion you created, dying in the abyss, ceasing to exist, the darkness only consumes and smothers, for once you've started there's no comfort for a killer except his melancholy tools.
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