Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
EgoFeeder May 2013
The practice before me was something so foreign
Their tempo of chant was that which evoked my adrenaline
The circle they worshiped began it's eruption of colors;
spewing a spectacle of radiance that was a spectrum of some other

The hexagram itself began to shine with an ominous gleam;
All but one vertex was a blaze; what could that mean?
Perhaps, their party of six was too small in number;
To awaken the demon from it's monotonous slumber?

To complete the ensemble of seven must be my own task;
The sprites were fixed in trance; I had no reason to ask
So, I sprang into motion and joined in their ritual dance
Finalizing their sacred rites and granting myself with reverence

The echoes of recitement deluded into something more strange;
One that my mortal ears could do naught but re-arrange
Into a bric-a-brac of non-sense derived from the past
I needed to contribute to the intonement for our progression to last

How could I ululate with the rest in my simple irrelevant language?
I inquired to my friends in hopes of restoring the veracity of my courage
The imp at my front spun his attention to answer my doubts;
For what truly matters is that which exhibits the earnestness of your quotes!

Aha My Brothers! I can now see without my cloudy vacillation;
The next verse I cast shall be the epithet of an immaculate alteration!
I must exalt for my falsifications and this facade of reverendum
These letters fixed in stone are merit-less and de omnibus dubitandum!

There shall be no greater wisdom than the acceptance of that fact
To dwell on the word of man is to dabble in what you've always lacked
Our deficiency of distinctive beliefs and the privilege of identity;
Every truth conceals it's delusion in a seemingly flawless sincerity!

I repeated my genial perspective several times until my breath was gone
The numbness in my torso was then expressed through a re-habilitating yawn
Followed by an out-pour of blood;Spewing from the confines of my lungs
Oh! What a righteous taste this is to speak in the devils' tongue!

For the throes of a sinner are not that of the wicked or holy blaspheme;
They are simply the inverted inquisition of the unanswered question maybe!
The concepts of free will and of good and evil are truly incomprehensible
as our minds are merely aware of relevance; Ignoring the unintelligible

Being enthralled by the dizziness of this new found anemia;
I commenced to utter the defeatists' call into the absence of Elysia
Witnessing no reply I fell to thy knees - cupping the blood I had spilt;
Raising the crimson liquid to thy mouth - consuming the life i'd built!

Which my new fraternal comrades admired with a fixed curiosity;
For I had undeniably turned water to wine and it was merely an impetuosity!
Laughter ensued and the fire of our ceremonial ring blazoned it's approval;
What a way to end an evocation! We had set the scene for our lords' revival!

To state his name for certain would be to use it in vain.
As the out-right ruler of this plane goes by many a name;
And none all the same ; How could a god be labeled as something you say?
If I may conclude in all modesty he is you and he is I. If I may ...
topacio Sep 2020
i can smell a poet a mile away
who only wishes
to read their poetry to you,

who prods and pulls
away at your brain for insight -
what about this word?
and
let me tell you of the girl
who broke my heart enough times
for me to procure this poem!

i smile and offer
the best of my critiques of course
empathy running too far into my core
and the naive understanding that all
poets hold the same truth.

and as i begin to take the baton
to set out on my journey of recitement,
i see my comrades eyes glaze over
to the toaster where her thoughts now linger
and remain.

and not as i had hoped on the syllables
and motifs i had painfully extracted
in the midnight hours of my
bedroom rumination.

and there your brain remains
as i run my last lap around the
sweet syllables of my favorite words.
Eli Marone Jan 2020
Oh woe is me
Doth hadn't passeth thine recitement of what hath been assigned
Thou proves a snag in thine's plans and shall prove to be most inconvenient to a later date
Ah,
Perhaps twas for the best
Alas,
Objets of a peculiar matter often do occur
This is a joke poem about the test that I failed like 20 minutes ago but written in Old English because why not

— The End —