Pain- the Magnificent Son of Death

Just a simple little poem, written by a simple little poet. Nothing more, nothing less.


1. Pain, the Magnificent Son of Death

Your brain will tell

Something's just not right

With the servant Pain

Death's son and companion

Searing through your limbs

Ripping you apart

For what? In vain

Fire coursing through one vein

While ice in the next

Stop, dead cold, in your tracks

Only to have to burn again

Flashing black as day

White as night

Wait, something's not right

Stars dance across the stage

Called your vision

Leaping magnificent leaps, twirls, pirouettes

To the bone-ragged tune

Of white-hot Pain

A canvas upon painted by the splashes of white, red, black

Paints of oils and watercolors of Pain

Not the pretty paintings above the Master's fireplace

But a more beautiful canvas

Though gruesome, still beautiful 

Of Pain, son of the high Death

Oh! Just the name

Terrible flashes, mental images

Of twisted, mangled

Bloody, bruised, banged and broken


The magnificent, gruesome

Son of Death

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