wrath

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The Tragedy of Muses   Nine muses given to us by the Gods, glorious daughters of Zeus and Memory Poets of the epic, sacred and love, historian, musician, tragedy, dance, comedian, and astronomer  
Be it a single lumen or roaring bonfire, my feelings for him burn purple; Pink (love) + Blue (lust).
Thus the Reaper picked up his tools, He took to his hands the metals forged in blood, He reached for the scythe with anger and wrath, According to his oath he upheld his mantle. Looking towards the foggy moors,
Dear the worst of me,   Greed... Why are you here? I didn't need all these tears. I didn't need you when i was younger
She is a soft spoken quick wit, With fear behind her gaze, And if you dare provoke it,  You should beware its scarlet haze. Her tongue is sharp like razor blades, Strikes quicker than an asp,
hundreds of souls gather round the Flame their faces away to hide shade from shame yet one soul searches desperately in hope, to find one soul's heart not in evil soaked.  
The grass has withered                   and turned to dust.                           All we see is dust. The wind is cold                   and especially fierce.
Cowering in the corner; it is his turn, To be freed from my control, And run rampant. I can only tremble; and watch. To control, I botch; And when loosed, it is not pleasant. For there is no way to console
It’s much too dangerous to think about passion.
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