Revelation’s Rhapsody

Accessing his blemished mind, hearing his symphony,
Symphony of words desirous to bring a despot’s pursuit,
Pursuit of one who leads his fallen comrades in misery,
Misery replacing the spoils of war’s victory, faux militia, lead guerilla.

Dyer-Bolique expresses himself, a guarded desire,
Desire drifts into words depicting the major’s fake incarnations,
Incarnations post absence without leave, we commence,
Commence to plot against the scourge of the country.

He speaks, my Dyer-Bolique, and I make my observation,
Observation of his own guarded soldier offering civility,
Civility akin to a passion, incoherent to society,
Society ailing, our uncompassionate guillotine hefty.

The target, veritable thug for hire, identified and chosen,
Chosen as deserving in an undeserving world, subject to it,
It waits beyond nonchalantly, serving its own purpose,
Purpose or pleasure, it matters not for he has sinned.

‘What method?’ I query to his vicious and manipulative self,
Self that must trust, but cannot be trusted, she to his he,
He, the only one who understands, contemplates suffering,
Suffering and its method, I await his decision.

The target set,
The sacrifice found,
Our elation to come,
Our corruption soon fed.