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- A spiritual war of attrition,
harbinger of death by mass starvation
- anemic souls flee the emaciated corpses of their masters
left rotting in the streets,
the air, thick with the fetid smell of death;
thoughts ... attacking like rabid dogs
wrestle your mind from the iron fist of the conscious world;
broken, you embrace the horror epics
- written in the blood of lesser men,
spoken as black deception,
and bound by fear and pain you are their author,
and the world will be your inspiration;
by use of words and dark incantation they will suffer as though in Hell,
until one by one you have destroyed them all.
The world, as you see it, Hell, as they know it,
a world fractured, sanguinary, and dying in a spiritual war of attrition.
And so, in the abyss I have come to find myself, ensnared by these devious litanies spoken from the mouths of angels, forgotten are the precepts of mortal suspicion… though danger lies hidden in this interaction, a most horrendous pain, and an indescribable fear, I must press on, though the sense of wounding runs deep I am forced; compelled, to continue forward, entranced by their melodic words. Death's procession: lost in an inescapable nothingness, the pit of the universe and perhaps beyond, we sink further as if drawn towards an entity that is not truly there and perhaps never existed at all. Blinded by absolute darkness and yet continuing to march as benighted soldiers in some unknown king's army. A suicidal procession of matter wholly incapable of understanding the complexities of their damnation, unwilling to avert their collective eyes from their nonsensical deity; lost to themselves, yet known to the world around them. A union of flesh all singing from the same hymnal, eyes fixed on the same maniacal conductor, destroying themselves with the same enthusiasm that bore them creation - The true living dead, lost somewhere between the tangible, and some monstrous netherworld, all marching in death's procession. Hark! Your flesh shall tear itself from your bones, the physical rejection of a poisoned soul beaten by it's own existence. The horrors of this dastardly mechanism that drives men laid bare for all to see, daemon, and seraphim alike. See how they gather round your mortal remains; a morbid curiosity for the fallen, an admiration of the frail accomplishments you claim - they are all here, written on your soul, in an endless stream of both action, and inaction; you are the sum of your deeds… in death you have come to understand, that which escaped you in life, and thus you are completed. Soft hands disguise a vindictive, cruel touch… born to destroy it's parallel through emotive attrition. Opened curtains cast baleful streams of light in cascading waves across a solid perimeter; you open your chest only to reveal soft, warm flesh within, all made carious now with violent deception… your heart, moribund, as it palpitates with your body's last breaths. Now lie down young man, and take rest with your fathers beneath the earth - take comfort in the clockwork of your own decomposition for its act will be your last - to this end, you have purchased true freedom with your death. The passion of man, to seek solace in the embrace of his Venus, to satiate those mortal desires of the flesh… to see oneself torn in blissful anguish over and again. The world and all it's dangers be damned if they, by happenstance, stand in the way of this archaic collision of man unto his Venus; an eternal thought, a momentary gesture… bound to repeat itself until the last breath has been drawn over warm lips. To every captive soul and gentle lover Into whose sight this present rhyme may chance, That, writing back, each may expound upon its sense, Greetings in Love, who is their Lord, I offer. Already of those hours a third was over Wherein all stars display their radiance, When lo! Love stood before me in my trance: Recalling what he was fills me with horror. Joyful Love seemed to me and in his keeping He held my heart; and in his arms there lay My lady in a mantle wrapped, and sleeping. Then he awoke her and, her fear not heeding, My burning heart fed to her reverently. Then he departed from my vision weeping. |
