‘Witchling’, she said
As I wove another strand
Of letters and nuances into
A tapestry of questions
That sucked the marrow
Of the notions that built
The skeleton of her.

‘Heathen’, she cried
As I broke down
All her rationalisations
With a simple beat
And a single word
That I repeated softly
‘Why? Why? Why?’

‘Murderess’, she sobbed
As I struck at her
And her walls of platitudes
With the simplest dagger
Just a wisp of metal
Coated in erotemes
And welded with thoughts.

‘Criminal’, she howled
As I quietly slipped
Through her defences
And made her face
The patterns in her psyche
And showed her a mirror
That unravelled the grooves.

‘Burn’, she snarled
As she tied me to
A stake made of
Solidity and constructs
And I burned silently
Still committing my only crime
I still questioned. Still thought.

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