Crystal bed of sentient quiescence

amidst the dark bedazzled

tombstone of solar haze.

A night of sentiment bedighted

in grim and graceful lace,

watering her wake with dry tears

of lucid bewilderment.

A brilliant spear imbued

with roses and nightshade,

the warm solitude untouched,

immaculate by virtue of rebirth.

The altar of sacrificial breath

for the alluring ambrosia of the dead

tells the tales of an ancient distress:

a sorrow of loving hell unredeemed

by the armament of the deluded flesh.

Image by emsalgado from Pixabay

Wail the winter of thy harvest.

Forbear to sacrifice the sun to the hoarfrost;

for the river ran its course with the autumn laws.

Bleed upon the tombstone of thy own core.

Withhold thy kiss from the lips of loss,

and thus thy hands from the sepulcher of love.

Return to the void whence thou crawled’st,

and with thee take the subjugating chains of conscience.

Illusionist and woe of serpentine discordance,

be exiled to the gutter of the fallen!

Remember what was to thee promised:

there is no life for thy venomed calling.