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In the hollow aspect of his mind,
the ghostlike vision made him blind,
nothing he had once held dearer,
but a loathsome brand of error;
a vile and distinct design
painfully grasping every sign
like the shadow of a mirror.

Forced to fight his growing terror,
since he was left to be the bearer,
his purpose manifested shame;
a spirit crushed, bruised, and lame
as his tormenter drew nearer.

There was naught to do but fear her.
The loss of sanity would be to blame,
birthed from his gruesome dame,
and his life would ne'er be the same.

As a razor scraped his shallow mind,
her desires, a brutal quest denied,
all his purpose lurked behind,
nothing more but a perverted game,
or the turmoil to replace the flame.

Though there were more pleasures for her to gain,
like the filth filled pools of the evening's rain.
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