Every time I look outside myself, there is nothing. The night scowls — harsh shadows glare from every edgy corner and crevasse, bluntly isolating themselves from the parking lot’s cold light. My humming fills the air of this witching hour whilst my eyes imbibe from the hollow calmness. I roam awake in the sleeping field of humanity, now and again waltzing in the absurdity of my surroundings. These dreams are shards of irrationality. The loftiest reason springs from the cradle of darkness with the germinating seed of a bleeding ideal, so piercing that the reflection of life gives it form and functionality. I have brandished and slain all by which reality breathes in harmony with the blades of stark madness, and like a venomous snake spread the bane of immortality. The aethers gleam athirst for breath’s sublime counsel; for I thieved their wine from their lips, and fed them sand from the deserts of necromancy. Oh, but to feel the warmth of shapely concept and pattern! Oh, but to exit the abandoned cavern of primordiality! One would beseech of himself the zeal to power to traverse the labyrinthine darkness into deeper regions of blackness to gaze upon the light of Abyss, and transfigure consciousness to heights unimagined.
How many times have I rode the horse of delusion by the creed of self-righteousness, and my touch wound the souls of travelers! Yes, I had no heart; for I damned and devoured it. Its rebirth was imposed to unveil the tragedies when I drank from my own venom to comprehend the deathful art of deed and utterance.
Compassion showed its face in the tender observation of all around me.
To appreciate, to love without attachments with the immanent knowledge of my needs and desires: out of comprehension rather than prejudice.
My iron fist has been nothing other than the reflection of my own savagery.
This love, born of past and star-gaze, brimmed with life as alive was the ulcer of the sealed gate. I could have spent an eternity from peering into his ancient eyes to crafting ways to keep him warm to fancying about many a way to beclothe him with caresses upon losing myself in the outlines of his vessel.
Melancholy’s inexorable tides washed over the sands of my soul. I drifted and kept on drifting. In sanctified sorrow, I writhed and yearned for that which I could not summon into mind. I brooded over by the dark corners and silent spots, and hid the storm from the common eye until my flaming heart, too, wilted into the covetous mouth of the void.
And you still wonder why I sleep with skeletons.
And he still grieves the sword you sent before the earth closed.