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Thrown on the doorstep,
Of the church next door,
He grew up alongside
Brainwashed bastards
Whose responsibility no one bore,
And priests so lonely
They would scrape pleasure
From his very body.
• • •
Napoleon,
his eyes no longer an ocean
But a shard of ice,
Painted the church's walls
with the blood
of those who wronged him
in a trice,
And chopped
the dirty fingers
that stole his innocence
once,
twice,
and for good measure,
thrice.
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Napoleon
Poetry❞he swore he'd let her kill him a million times and a million more before he laid a finger on a single thread of the dress she wore.❞ [©2016PO]
