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Impoverished imp

I know this to be true,
You're my creation
Straight out of the thoughts 
Flying around my mind.
You've grown in power at every turn,
Taking shape into a matchless form.

You devilish imp
Whispering in my ear,
"Death be had. Do it. Do it. Die."
Aha! Now I rise and I cry,
"Impoverished imp,
You be dead, die!"
I carry the sword.
I slay, I'm using it
To cut off your head
And silence your babble.

I swing this sword,
Cut the blade through the air
At your form, at your neck.
It's there. You're done. 
You're gone. 
Vanished. Banished.
You were nothing. Nothing at all.
An illusion. A mere thought.
A distortion of my reality.

© 2021 Loly Rinn
Photo by Ricardo Cruz on Unsplash
Published inLatest Poetry

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