Hours Too Late

More telling than the gossip and more terrifying than the truth, is you. For what else have I done than hide from you and your twisted ways and here you stand again at my door, Fear? You have no business here, nothing unfinished nor started, and yet you are beckoning at my door for me. Have you not become sufficient in the blood you’ve spilled from my name that you return and demand it? What say you, Fear, or does silence have your hand in unholy matrimony once more? If however, here you stand for my sanity, you’ve come hours too late it seems.

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