Death of a Salesman.

Archaic scriptures like manuscript pages from ancient history,
claim my sanity possessing me in my entirety.
Have I blind faith that I follow without any question,
leaping before I looked into the madness that is like a loaded weapon? 

 
Concealed behind your web of lies I find only consternation,
cajoled as though a prize meant to console pageant queens that failed their nations. 
Prehistoric means conceived by patriarchal men,
capture me then set me free and entrap me once again.  

 
Go ahead, that is all that you're good at,
reap what you sow then sow what you get. 
Entranced, whirling like the dervishes seduced by Sufism, you are my religion,
perhaps I needed more time to prepare for the icy cold, your only provision.  

 
Like knives, the sharpness of your tongue gored me like a butcher with a vendetta,
each utterance like gunpowder as though your words were fired at me from a Beretta. 
Raise the roof, turn the house down like jezebel,
double double toil trouble me with your wicked spells.  

Even from beyond the grave, you still wreak havoc in my soul,
I lost my head when I found your guillotine romance that made me grow old.
You poisoned me with poetry as I read between the lines.
intoxicated me with your insolence that you turned into wine.

Close it off, you were close enough but it all falls apart, shut it down,
complacency became your own enemy and now you're six feet underground.
Let it fall apart, silence in our final moments, do not make a sound.
Emancipated, wiser now that I understand what it means to be lost and found.