Psalm 139: 7-8 "Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there."
an elegy: to odium and despair
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my lord, my beloved unholy master of this ghostly realm,
what sweet sultry twine have thee enslaved me within?
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but, thou art the Empress of these worming souls!
thy palace rests in the white-washed sepulchers,
a fine bastion of decaying elegance marred with age,
where the moth powders to cinders and sky weeps smoke,
where the black rose curls its petals and chips to dust!
hail! the Empress of the Dead!
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what a devilish scheme thee entrance my psyche within,
that I may reign over specters and still be thy harlot!
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dost thou realize the scars thee have left with each nightly . . .
? harvest ? thee reap bloody pleas and sow a crop of ruins
watering it daintily with purrs of assurance and urging vanities . . .
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you are the beauty of the grave, Astarte!
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what false accolades thee cast as fickle dice upon the floor!
i'm walled unto suicidal cycles and draining liqueur memoirs
of a sovereign pasty soul once burning with fiery passion,
now wholly drunken within self-created crucifixions!
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. . . escape . . .
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is but a breath haunting the twilight horizon,
a fair phantom swooping between the broken crags of nails
ripped upon the acid foundation of this humble abode (smothered)
with the bloody iniquities of late hushed pardons and Rosary beads
as the deep shadow's cloud overwhelms a prayer's licking vigil!
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the thick aura of obscurity has seized the barren night's starry host –
strings of pearls that even this Pariah once cast muted hymns unto.
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oh! Curse the morn my form was fashioned! Curse this unraveling vessel!
'tis a torturous routine my soul hast sought to cling itself to for perpetuity;
to linger in vain for daylight, yet, never view the wails of a birthing dawn!
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(just a candle flickers against the seeping gloom, its wax searing my flesh)
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a simple vigil exists as an indian gift granted to the miserable wretches,
who crave death, who blister palms in search for it as veiled treasure.
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sighs (my own?) caress the flame to-and-fro,
filling my body instead of victuals,
& wanting groans pour from my pores as a bountiful fountain!
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emptiness!
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no . . . serenity (like a dove upon the salty shores)
no . . . tender rest (as a babe at his mother's breast)
no . . . sweet silence (at the reverent moment of eternal slumber)
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ALWAYS!
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turmoil rivaling the grand tsunamis and tunnels of beastly wind!
the dust cooks my flesh with maggots and molding scabs,
& I, a Pariah, smear the ending of days with saline trails and ash
(one who hast made love to Death does not return to marry Life)
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am I a great sea monster, the Leviathan of ancient eras, or Behemoth,
that I must be walled within harsh concrete, locked, caged, guarded
with the crumbs of satisfaction that I remain higher than shells of creatures?
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(a soothing breath ignites the flame . . . and it burns with might!)
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anxiety freezes my nerves in paralyzation, eyes upon the flame!
hast a kindred phantom glided unto my realm of weeping ghosts?
hast it entered to mock the joyful sorrow I seek in unrelenting pain?
the air is swollen with the perfume of jasmine and the white lilies,
yet this broken piece in limbo between dawn and dusk still wavers . . .
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oh imperceptible presence (dost I know thee?),
I loathe this very existence –
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e.v.e.r.y.
pant
and
breath
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i take with the frank bitterness of mine own soul . . .
oh, what a base charlatan art I! Vile! Pathetic!
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& i knew thee once . . . scented the honey of thy being . . .
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traitor!
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thee cloaked me with ivory flesh and veins & thou knit,
aye! KNIT! my form with skeletal relics and delicate sinews!
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whilst thou shatter this clay form? turn me to dust once again?
my, what a double-edge sword thee wield!
in guilt thee cried !woe! unto the fallen angel,
the wings shredded upon the altar of innocence,
whose body melts within the shadowed veil of sinful desire;
my core was carved with iniquity and saliva, with glass and odium,
into the masked slave, the graceful harlot, of thy grandest nemesis . . .
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how dare thee approach my realm!
thee, who forsook me to drown within the depths of affliction,
why didst thou not allot my essence to pass serenely, secretly,
from the womb of my mother unswervingly into the mausoleum!
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Reply!
counter such accusations – challenges of thy supposed righteousness!
Reply!
Reply!
Reply!
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why hast thou disowned me within the wasteland of no return?
where deep shadow and gloom form the figures of my comrades . . .
coward . . . thou ne'er possessed the courage to bear this cross,
to exist in the marshes, the Gehenna, of night and disorder . . .
. . . where light is but another shade of darkness . . .
& the candle is but a hallucination that fades to grey!
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so why dost my heart yearn for thee, &
colorblind pupils stray to the tunnel
I plunged through eras (days?) before?
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. . . escape . . .
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perhaps 'tis another word, for redemption . . .
& so, i dare to climb to the place from whence I came.
--o--
Please, review. I shall return the favor within the week.