Sc(r)am

Left to idle for an era
and left to sift through ages
that left in a hurry.
They went where all good things go
and where others went
to free themselves from
old tyrannical overbearance,
leaving only their ever-decaying pride.
Never resting or pondering
possibility in the making.
Sojourners that had sacrificed epics
and all they never really had
made for their long escape
into a void fully abundant
with eternal choice:
to always leave.

Hello, Cerebus, My Friend

I parted ways with my almost comatose cadaver.
Between inhale and exhale I was gone.
Her uttered vote voiced in all three tones
that should I leave my seated throne
I should surely take my place in her hall
to bask in the sweet glow of Armageddon.

Though a temptress at her best, I expected
the worst to come, of course.
Her behavior was based in appetence.
Rigorous and Draconian in distinct opposition
to any compromise I could hope for.
These were not the features of the only
woman I could trust, because surely
that twin was meant for so much more.

I gave this Venus her newly carriaged name
and shared vintage strawberry wine
with Baphomet, who were one and the same.
I demeaned the impossibility in isolation.

The venture began in the diseased fields
of the west with mechanical scarecrows
and endless mines of ore and continued further
to the wolves of the north howling at Luna to
their hearts’ content and then finally resting
on the futile outbursts of a distant
starburst galaxy contained all in conspiracy.
Affinity fell to sleep beneath the blanket
of the end and Chaos awoke to serenades
of inclination and natural tendencies.

Perhaps a lucid dream, but unlikely it seemed.
I shall walk this dirt road to Hell.
I bid my fond farewell and goodbyes, Lilith.
Hello, Cerebus, my friend.

Vs.

The distaff iris spit out rainbows
on the path to trees,
an augur for his sanguine resurgence
anterior to the brands
brandished for the flutter
ever so ensiform and jagged-edge
to sempiternal twins on the brink,
staunch fists and swords clashed,
refinement and incorruptibility
became a thing of the past
and sooner vistas, even.

Dynasty of Dyad

Prose, ever so seraphic,
nor celestial salvation,
should ever correlate
my aeonian repriever,
my rescuer of resolution,
my amaranth salvation.

At Odds with the World

When I move, muscles become my antagonists,
as though frequenting nothing in absolute,
held for ransom in heresy my doubt persists
in this routine you so hold dear in repute,
yet, despite the dread and felt disaffection
I promote my mind myself to a false belief
that comfort complete is within misdirection
and integrity can be found in disbelief,
one true barrier lies beyond my distrust
of any given cycle you can idolize as God,
my own dogma, my one belief is to combust
the reason you endure under that old facade.

Contra/Version

Disaffirmation is relief, which I
envy you wholly; and when you
negate the truth, liability
is simply no longer
any concern to you, but still it
lingers inside and rips you apart.