a letter to each of my wraiths,
spirits of insidious intent.
to those who could not stomach
my tempestuous volatility,
the ones who grinned
and ran upon learning
I am a storm with skin.

the phantasms, loathsome and odious.
to the scorch marks you left upon
the deepest caverns of my soul.
melodious, vile, cloying, abysmal.

I drank every honeyed word like a promise:
yet it was naught but fermented love.
these are the odes for the ghosts
of my past mistakes.

I'll paint you all in a ravenously
meticulous light. you will have
your fifteen minutes in the sun,
before I set you all ablaze.



i.

you need no title, you deserve no name.
if you ever read this, harbor no doubts
that this is your trial.

you make me wish for an exorcism.
after all these years, your demon still sleeps within the marrow of my bones.

you are nothing more than a disease.

by some act of paradoxical cruelty,
I am unable to hate you. you deserve
it, but it is out of my capabilities.

you were poison.
you whispered sweet promises
that you didn't,
couldn't understand.
you tasted like pomegranates
and original sin.
you held me up when I
couldn't breathe, believe
in anything, or even stand.

thrice you sent me back
to the abyss.
in the end, we ascended
the throne as rightful heirs.

did you know what
you were doing?
did it even matter?
did you happen to care?

I'd like nothing more than to burn
every inch of you from my memory.

I dream of you on your birthday.
on days and dates of significance
that you have long forgotten.

you are a parasite. you were my muse.
I cannot help but wonder if you
understand what you truly are.
you have done that which is
unforgivable: I hope it corrupts you.
hate yourself for me, as I am unable to.

pray to whatever gods you hold
that you never cross my path.
I will annihilate you with a single glance.
encase you in ice so you may rule
the underworld alone.
I am your captive no longer.

I see you fully, in inscrutable detail.
I want to be the one holding the mirror,
all too happy to show you exactly
what you have always been. let it destroy
you: yet even that is too kind a fate.

your abhorrence festers within yourself,
your diseased and poisoned soul
eating away at the facade you built.
I'm tearing it down and exposing
your darkest fears and sins.



ii.

you are a brazen ballad of
burning bravado.

I'm done purging and
dissecting my soul for you.

you are not an enigma.
you are no daughter of the sun.
you are transparent.
you paint yourself in ashes;
desperate for resplendence.
I cannot stop you, darling.
just remember: I am the one
who taught you how to shine.

yes, it is true: I burnt you
with hands of unintentional
volatility. since my
transgressions; I have fasted,
wept, and atoned my sins.
yet desipte agreements,
promises of your forgiveness;
I have all but brought you
my head upon a platter.

I weigh my words upon a scale.
I do not wish to harm you again.
I am Atlas, pirouetting across
an endless sea of ice.
I dare not shatter you
with thoughtless words.
yet you have become a
threat to my own health.

I want nothing more than to repair
the frayed edges, yet I cannot
sew the tatters of fifteen years
with a single spool of thread.
restoration is not a one way street.

two weeks ago I bore my soul:
the fragility, voracity, my
undiltuted truth.
I forgave myself for what
I did in days past, at your behest.

it is, and shall never be enough.
no. not for the opulence
of a goddess. yet you are not
made of fire. you are ice.

opaque.

you have been nothing more
than a mirage. at least the truly
deceased only visit twice a year.
they don't leave unhinged promises.

“we could rebuild, recreate,”
and other half truths
you weave and sell.

you know just as well as I do, honey:
words are wind.
they do not bring warmth;
foster naught but sweet sighs
that shall never come to light.

your translucency is a beacon,
and you are the only one
unaware of how easy it is
to see through you.

I am truly sorry.
I am finished ripping open
the lining of my bones
to the lamenting cries
of unanswered echoes.

if ever your luster returns,
bringing substantial proof of
warmth, commitment; your needles
and thread: perhaps we can
recreate our tapestry.

until then, the silk shall remain
as it is: ravelled, fading,
matching your soul in every
transparent, powdery aspect.

So go ahead and tell me, child.
Would it all have been worthwhile
To tread upon Eliot's allusiory notion
Having bitten off the matter with a smile
Negating warnings, blinded by devotion?
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
During our days to ****** and create
Amnesic to past transgressions of a dying fall
Divulging the insidious question upon our plate?
Daring to disturb the song of the universe
Repeating the same indecisions and revisions
In which we must ultimately reverse?

No more magic: magic dreams, magic realities. Does this seem backwards and ludicrous of me to state such a wish? Potentially.

Yet I do not wish such upon all domains: it's more a fallacy from wariness. Yet, even an idle wish cannot change the course of action already in motion.

Ergo, if anyone still vehemently disagrees with the notion of my half wish after the intricacies are spilled upon the table; do as you will. Yet tread with caution, as you've been given heed.

To embrace the multifaceted, multidimensional level of intricate details which form the building blocks of the nature of such a claim and infinity; reviewing and understanding a few core concepts is necessary.

Magic is essentially the higher understanding and manipulation of nature. A form of knowledge, if you will.

Knowledge consists of one of the many pathways or permutations used to control for power.

What of power? Well, within the hands of an undisciplined mind, it is a means of corruption.

This does not insinuate that the presence of power is a causal link for corruption. Not in full. Yet enough power paired with an undisciplined mind can result in corruption. One might find themselves signing over the soul at the drop of a dime.

Furthermore, even for those possessing an extremely disciplined and engrained sense of virtue; power can corrupt if given enough time and the proper circumstances.


Despite this understanding, if given the opportunity: I'd pick magic **** near every time.


“I can change” we'd say; after the thousandth retake of the same test of willpower, of failed temperance and appetites. This is cried out to the sky only upon recalling the aftermath of damage caused.

Perhaps we could change.
Yet we vow this each time before starting the process anew; our memories wiped.

Memory is grand, yet it is our virtue that holds the key, that which truly counts. This too can be learned, relearned, compromised, expanded upon. It is not a static state. It adapts, lives, breathes, thrives; and you better believe it's intelligent. (As all energy is intelligent.)

Throw the two together, along with a few more ingredients, and one is given the comprising elements governing most everything; to some degree or another.


“There is no good or evil; there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.”


Not quite. This is a ****** half truth of blind lunacy stemming from everyone who has and shall always be nobody else but you. This is the face of corruption fueled by power, resting inside us all.

Yet it does not encompass all layers. No.

It is every single one of those things, and none of them.
It is the compromised result of all infinite possibilities in between: of everything all at once, until it IS only One; encompassing each subsequent pause and division in between.

It is the unification, the separation, the battle and harmony between form and void; and of the constant, neverending, infinite, perpetual vacuum of everything and nothing in-between all fluctuating at different rates and degrees.

Any reality you could ever imagine, (be it surface level; or diving into one of the immesurable infinities, or somewhere in between) - it has either happened; is currently occuring; or will come to pass at some point.

Time does not exist in the same constraints we are accustomed to. It is cyclical, recursive, nonlinear, and in states of quantum superposition (or cognition) - all happening at once.

Over an unutterable infinity, or within the blink of a cosmic eye. Yet who is to say that these two notions are not the same?

Infinitely many is just the comprised collective innumerable counterpart of One.

Imagine DNA. When broken down at the subatomic molecular level; it is infinitely small. Yet it creates the human body: the same blueprint present everywhere.

Out of the microscopic level of infinitely small forms larger layers. DNA creates the neurons within the human brain. Jumping out a layer: this forms the whole of the brain. Then the human body. It magnifies to the entire collective of human bodies.

This in turn creates the cells for another strand of DNA within a larger One. More neurons. Brain. The body™ of that larger One. The collective bodies of the collective of Ones. Repeat this cycle ad infinitum.

It is always One; but how it appears depends on the level of infinity you're dealing with and envisioning at that given moment.

---------------------------------------------------

So go ahead and tell me, child.
Would it all have been worthwhile
To tread upon Eliot's allusiory notion
Having bitten off the matter with a smile
Negating warnings, blinded by devotion?
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
During our days to ****** and create
Amnesic to past transgressions of a dying fall
Divulging the insidious question upon our plate?
Daring to disturb the song of the universe
Repeating the same indecisions and revisions
In which we must ultimately reverse?