The Devil's Instruments
The whispered rantings of my muse reeked of insanity. An insanity which sprouted coils of madness, unfurling and curling, surrounding the pockets of my more simplistic mind-at-ease. Oh my vanity... For it was an insipid insanity That crept towards me with a reaching grasp that screamed of lethargy and yet I-the-fool walked Right towards it, into the arms of that silver-stringed tapestry. Rising to swallow my mind in calamity my rantings reared with temporal tempestry and my soul was delivered from the web gleaming silvery. For vanity, vanity, it is man's own fantasy. It sees what you want to see and poison is violent and death comes with poverty but blindness is found of my very own vanity. O! Thank that I live in a madness as like me and people all share in my sweet twisted symphony.
