i devastated you long before i created you. i loved tragedies and you thought you did too, but you merely reflected my imagery. you reckoned i was a tragedy and you gazed at me in admiration, but i was no masterpiece to begin with. daring to think i was your muse, you still wanted to deform me. i am no property and no masterpiece and no devastation and thinking kills and i could taste the pastels of your life on my tongue and maybe intoxication is my own kind of tragical glory [but that would consequently make you the craving murderer /and craving murderers are to be devastated/]
