wordstorm pouring from my bleeding lips -
an infant's scream for sustenance rising soft
above the sound of battle, the shrieks of devils and war.
ravens mock, their harshest rasping calculated
to pierce the heart of all the wounded,
bleeding out into the pits of shattered planet earth;
mud and rats and infestations of the most severe order,
without respite...

this is my battlefield within;

laughing is a sorry antidote to crime and sorrow;
joy is bared to bones before the shadow of a thousand failing suns, it laughs despite the pain;
you say that love, the most supreme of all affections, cannot be touched by misery.

devil.

go back to the

shadow of god

where you lurk, a curse to be unleashed; raving at your chains

This is no monologue. It is an address. It is not the raving of a madman - just the scribbles of a fool who seeks to grab the heart and soul of men with words:
complicated patterns sparking complicated thoughts sparking every **** achievement of our broken, bleeding
history,
our downfall and our towering symphony of
glory...

words attest the fabric of the world we create,
undead they speak with voices heard in silence and propel
the mind to visionary things;
or to the pits of hell.

Either way they give our mortal bodies wings.

We cannot fly too far, too high, with these;
life and death and all the shades of
heaven and hell between - that's where words can take us

if we let them

don't you see?

So listen. Write one more time. I speak the struggle of living flesh, and you hear the mournful infant's cry.
It is your soul raising living sorrow above the sound of busy anguish. It seeps through every waking moment of this dream.
So feed the baby, misbegotten mortal. Feed the ******* lips of your own soul.

One Word can stop its cry forever.