| “Pick a card”, the hag said. “Any card”, and
so I did.
Of a time worth its while in the vault of memory
some, with faith would care and seek audience
in passing days
He had not walked the breadth of their prison
Ascertained to show a sign that in purity of
truth
it Seemed not; the fading into a dream
their ministrations impeded, the sympathy would
cease
derelict
The pestilence claimed the most from him
a night that withstood the frivolous chime of
laughter
or a scent of miscalculated deception gathering
its folds
forcing him into a necessary gloom, an evil silence
For the old longing in monotony was abandoned
And facing the caricature of existence had he
no answers
sonambulist
such Sadness left not a reaching for the Void
undiscovered
He was strewn across the path of the Scouring,
the last martyr
muse of lyric was beseeched, horror weeps a wailing
scare
Your shield of faith drenched
five
the
full caress
“Tell me the whole story”, words I never thought
to utter.
She continued her sing-song confusion:
And the fruitless bosom of dying affection.
The symptoms lent a curious glance to the unnameable,
an abomination which roamed unceasing, corrupt
in ignorance.
For the Millennia was beset by hauntings
heretofore welcomed.
And the prize of sleep was not given in extending
a tendril to capture:
Malady has coerced thus ill-fated child unto
the realm of shadow stumbles.
Survive not the minor quakes, upon the Monster’s
horns was he adorned.
The outcome flawed: of calamity within Deluge,
the abomination in craving has branched off on its own.
Letting it be known that it needs him no further.
The insidious scheme has been in the works for a means
so that the Gehenna must soon come.
Has it not shown its hideous face in undeniable
fevers, in dreams of shivering ?
In waking have these clung as the heat of a maddened
sun. He speaks within the edge of Dreaming,
and the tale is of blood. Though the need for
immediate aid. Worst of insults, never be attended to.
For none respond to Cassandra. Even those
who saw beyond the masque.
Later asked no more to be spared. Failing to
cloak the horror,
has it been let out this fiend of my own manufacture.
The Sundering
fooled us all into believing.
With fears and doubts it gorged upon these failures
swelling to ramifications,
eventually drowning the Self. Evening further,
closing with the faintest of snow
(when there is no such thing as a little snow).
Soon the Maiden conjures a rage unabated burying everything alive. The
despair none will ever come to know, visit or dwell. She-of-small
faith looked back a few times until the glare consumed
and it could no longer be seen. She melted into the sun.
Further and deeper into this River I plow.
My limbs tire twice have borne the suffering.
An antidote against the currents of Life.
The cure as potent as the illness in accordance
to the wishes of my Prince.
Free me from such misery.
Why would it not now end? |