A Misanthropic Prayer
O vacuum-hearted breather of eons-old fire!
those fires that curl up into dejected orbs
Let me, a frail mound of stimulus respire
And your uncharted resonance absorb
The orbs are mere mirrors of your chaotic mould
Where our fleshly reflection of blood-cracked gaze
displays its tormented truth to uphold
in decay its sylvan daemon ablaze
You’re the grand canvas with an entropic frame
The artist, a hermit of faith and Lore
Its art a rotten product of gloom and shame
And the artist's absence I truly abhor
My kind is virulence on this celestial host
That orbits the massive ember of your fire
May its golden milk shower down and defrost
Each cold pious delusion and bid them expire
In mortal anticipation I crawl
On and on back to your chaos-nourished womb
Amidst hatred and morality's fruitless brawl
I unearth humanity’s hungry tomb
An Empty Matchbox
This gentle tribe of a fiery language
Have languished to its ancestry of sparks
Like the skeleton of a plague-scoured village
Its pernicious frame basks in gloom-dusted dark.
Of luminous destiny this noble tribe
Used to nestle on my crowning fingers
Each flicker, a death, would in turn imbibe
In me a faint flicker of will to linger
My flicker is fuelled by hope’s ashen shade
the same shade that holds high this tribe's lost flame
for through their ashes that to the wind shall fade
upon darkness’ fertile rot, they smear their name
Lines on the Night Sky
The night sky bludgeons with its silver stare
These gloom-barbed thoughts to a tranquil pulp
Gorging on the blood and bile leaving the bare
Husks to fester in its forthcoming gulps.
Thirst and hunger of a celestial scale
Must lure the dark bowels of the dying day,
For starvation’s cold breath it calmly exhales
To blow nourishment's solar remnants away
As time scrapes the night sky’s charcoal skin
like resentment does to the spasmodic mind
in boiling streams flows its blood from within
and the canvas of introspection it finds
Vacuum-fleshed and ancient, the night excretes
Its nebulous tales in luminous specks
Like dissonant tunes of decaying heartbeats
In its darkness the yearning for truth awakes
The mind’s membranous pockets are
filled with starving thoughts.
They eagerly wait to be shuffled and
interlocked into ideas.
But beware O anxious mind,
The hand that reaches for you is
that of time, the omnipotent pickpocket!
He strives to turn your pocket, the cradle of ideas,
into a graveyard.
He drools at the idea of wreathing mortality's triumphant
garlands around scornfully verbose epitaphs.
Stick out your tongue, O time!
The cities are facing dissolution
Like candles with electronic wicks.
Let their fluid corpses armour your innards!
The next wave of self annihilating hordes will come.
Empowered in blinding luminescence,
Metallic roars, inflated populace and greed-greased ambitions,
They will march.
Upon your armored innards
They will plant the drooping flag of Civilization.
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