iii. rout

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I saw her reigns;
Concocting out of flames
Heading towards my misery
Derision, tenacious—

A novel ruse

A naive quarry

Struggle a certitude

Victory a quandary

Bristling irises, not a match
To her blood stream,
Ire of sadism that I beheld
The rout seemed futile with
The verity the doom held
She rendered me weak—
For, my sword harnessed crevices
Nonetheless not blunt
As it pierced through her vain.

Bristling irises, not a matchTo her blood stream,Ire of sadism that I beheldThe rout seemed futile withThe verity the doom heldShe rendered me weak—For, my sword harnessed crevicesNonetheless not bluntAs it pierced through her vain

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"Victory lies in the dearth of pusillanimity"

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