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Enshrine the guilty, purge the fields

As your nature is treason, you shall be lain with the rest

A genocide in all forms, a cleansing

The power

The power, the sins, a graveyard with no tombstones

Bodies piled and divided as necessary

My personal valley of the kings, but with none of the regality

Each one serving a purpose for a night or two, but ultimately disposable

A sleeping garden with no chance to sprout, but if ill continue planting the seeds

I live with this compulsion

And so you die by this compulsion