Darkness. Everywhere!
Ink doth flow from sharpened point,
like blood spilling forth on field, battle torn.
This fog, so dense, that even light
only, barely, can its ember so subtle,
one heart, it shall penetrate and thus pierce so trite.
Ah but harbinger, she is!
Of light and life there to come.
From my being doth pour
the light of this life.
But life renewed?
Fire-fly flicker on distant ridge,
scratches mind's eye as it winnows through fog and one tiny sear.
Life's own vapor seems to leave my breath,
like that fog that will lift on morning's light so soon due.
But afterlife, for me, and no light of sun's ray
one illumination of mind, with new eyes, and new son to see!
And again the ink doth pour on page,
like blood-born stain in battlefield rage
poured thus from soul, and spilled at so young and ripe an age.
Will her flow, stop its course?
Will dry scratch etch paper
and scribe words no sentient mind shall thus comprehend?
Alas, doth blood lie still on unholy ground,
and thus the same as the word so then scribed
without ink or inkling?
Thus soon to become dry etching in dust,
and then lifted by lukewarm breeze, and carried thus away,
like the fog of this war, seared by lying sun's gentle ray.
While today, it is vapor
driven away by snakes dual rapier,
cool, moist night shall return, and with it a mist's dense and weeping taper.
And the snakes shall they gather,
once again - a cold, dark smather
returning to their chasm, plotting fight on unforseen day.
Alas, but where is my inkwell?
Where thus my raging blood?
My transfusion and tranmutation thus born on a thrashing chopper's blade;
and with the reaping scythe's sure swing of rip, spit and tear
I again shall write, fight and swear
like a lithe, gentle fog thus rything and rising on a warming Spring air.
Snake and slither...beware!
Whilst blood she doth course,
and ink thus for one child she shall spill,
One Veritas, One word,
and with one word, one sword,
one blade, this Word...eternal forged in my will.
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2 comments:
Excellent. I felt caught in the fleeting moment between seeing satan's head and beating wings, I first begin to pass through the frozen sea and see hell standing turned topsy-turvy. Above is purgatory.
I almost could sense the web of stinging bees above, but I wonder if it is damp and cold or dry and hot there in the darkness? If it were dry and hot, the mist would be a kind of siren.
Within the dark chasm, there is only a burning desire to see light...the fog, just as it lifts toward the daylight, is but another reminder to the damned of what could have been...so yes, the mist is siren...but this one sings her song as silent antagonism and further curses the being of the blind who would not see, and now, cannot see.
A sort of metaphor for Democrats and their incessant desire to curse everything that is sacred.
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