Feb 2016
Because the world was never meant to be unfolded. A sphere with horizontal illusions, ghost hands tugging the strings of its puppets. Cut the core, force it open, its life-being oozes out. Blood on your hands! The cosmos sing a siren’s song, narrating your imminent departure. Death has come knocking and you’ve reached the end of the road.
Hands reaching for the icy door ****, ignorant to your proposed actions of cowardice. A molecule of your cramped finger contacted the handle, transmittings bolts of Zeus’ mighty power through your veins, reaching the crown of your head, dropping explosions of trepidation.
The sand clock grows anorexic. Teeth chattering seizures, a panic attempt to shake off Fate’s shackles, bellowing prayers you could not initiate. Growth of perspiration a physical secretion of your anxieties, the beads forming constellations, symbolizing Death, cascaded, tracing the hollows of your cheeks, the contour of your face, the valleys of naviety, mocking the seconds sinking.
Grasp onto the latch. The future awaits you. The Three Winged Seraphs guiding their blade, stroking the String with your name, so deliciously yearning. Release my tensions.
A rebel against your demands, your hands animated to life- Come to life! rotates the mechanism, summoning the hinges to succumb.
The last grains in the sand clock streams down, descending a route of design. Envisioning a waterfall, so pristine, so innocent, so natural its intent.
The String relishes its fragility and vulnerability, purring against the caresses of the Blade. Like dead skin curling, the wings of the String spread. Expanding, preparing to take flight.
Three, two, one. The last revolutionary Will continues to fight a dying battle.
The mercenary lays his eyes upon Death.
Could Death ever look angelic? A familiar face combing through your mangled hair. From the time you were conceived into a stranger’s world, you were en route to Him. Spiting all human faith, He was the true messiah. A messiah cloaked in Lucifer’s shadow.
Innumerable anecdotes to be contrived, however has he once broken a promise? He was fair and just. Not a soul was mercilessly shut off from Him. Though He was shunned from His children, passed on from father to son through word of mouth, did he not offer paradise at the end?
Death opened his arms vowing Zion.
A matrimony.
Hands reaching for the icy door ****, ignorant to your proposed actions of cowardice. A molecule of your cramped finger contacted the handle, transmittings bolts of Zeus’ mighty power through your veins, reaching the crown of your head, dropping explosions of trepidation.
The sand clock grows anorexic. Teeth chattering seizures, a panic attempt to shake off Fate’s shackles, bellowing prayers you could not initiate. Growth of perspiration a physical secretion of your anxieties, the beads forming constellations, symbolizing Death, cascaded, tracing the hollows of your cheeks, the contour of your face, the valleys of naviety, mocking the seconds sinking.
Grasp onto the latch. The future awaits you. The Three Winged Seraphs guiding their blade, stroking the String with your name, so deliciously yearning. Release my tensions.
A rebel against your demands, your hands animated to life- Come to life! rotates the mechanism, summoning the hinges to succumb.
The last grains in the sand clock streams down, descending a route of design. Envisioning a waterfall, so pristine, so innocent, so natural its intent.
The String relishes its fragility and vulnerability, purring against the caresses of the Blade. Like dead skin curling, the wings of the String spread. Expanding, preparing to take flight.
Three, two, one. The last revolutionary Will continues to fight a dying battle.
The mercenary lays his eyes upon Death.
Could Death ever look angelic? A familiar face combing through your mangled hair. From the time you were conceived into a stranger’s world, you were en route to Him. Spiting all human faith, He was the true messiah. A messiah cloaked in Lucifer’s shadow.
Innumerable anecdotes to be contrived, however has he once broken a promise? He was fair and just. Not a soul was mercilessly shut off from Him. Though He was shunned from His children, passed on from father to son through word of mouth, did he not offer paradise at the end?
Death opened his arms vowing Zion.
A matrimony.
not a poem
