Embers of the citadel
Lie beneath my chariot of truth.
It burnt to the ground in a day
Every antiquity, every modernity, lost.
The gilted wheels turn,
Whisking the ashes into a frenzy
That's not too dissimilar
To the one incited by your passion.
The charcoaled remains are your doing
And that passion of yours is virulent.
It is overcoming, intoxicating,
And to succumb to it feels so good.
The passion - poison - is an incendiary,
Coarse in my veins.
Cascades of venom empower me
Like your flames that took the citadel.
The ashen fatality beneath my chariot
Is what I am destined for,
For rushes of poison escape from my insides out
Until I am hollow, too, amongst this emptiness.
Nothing gives you strength of these measures
Except the infusion of toxicity such as this;
But the passion is the chariot to truth, to vivid reality
And all, even I, fall victim to its poison with time:
I will burn.
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