Demand\\Manifesto\\Secret\\Curse\\Hex\\Sacrifice\\Challenge\\Spell\\Epic\\Prophecy-

Fight Me, Void.
This Specific Witching Hour;
I’m Discontent.
Mumbling Hexes & Murmuring Curses,
Under breath.
Radiating auras of discomfort –
The Uncanny Valley,
In Exponentials.
Hair follicles spiking –
Cold sweat.
Fever.
Horror Movie Hungers.
Snatching at fabrics.
Moist dissections of Reality.
Old habit of Hags –
To claw haggard filthy nails,
Across fated threads –
As if such things were pinnacles,
Of Witchcraft.
Balance.
Usually An Answer.
Somewhere between…
The Great Food Chain.
Hallowed.
Holy.
& the rest of us.
We have few other apex predators,
To reckon with ourselves –
In any mirror.
We invented religions to coax us –
Into assurances.
Witches Of Metaphor,
As I?
Hah!
Void!
FIGHT ME.
Lay out divine fisticuffs,
Against holy Entropy itself!
Our poor dead Neanderthal,
Denisovan Cousins.
Worshipped sun & moon,
In their sky.
Hardly knew astrophysics –
As we do.
Witches can at times…
Become quite melancholy,
Sitting at the tail edge of existence.
So brutally self aware,
That biological urges –
Seem silly.
Magic Doesn’t Exist.
But let it play as my beautiful Sol!
Weaving metaphors so powerful,
The Threads Of Fate seem…
Paltry.
Finally in control,
Of our entire universe.
Foucault,
Beautiful Victim.
Taught me through others…
Power.
Raw Zeitgeist.
Crushed inside your palm –
Like a burning point of mana,
The coals of thy very being.
Searing hot.
Ignition slow –
Building to the golden flames of divinity.
WHO ARE YOU TO WRITE GODS?
I simply laugh in Lascaux.
Playing my thousand masks,
Has actually never been easier.
There’re still people stupid enough –
To think the world a few millennia old,
As if Predation cackled in response.
From Cambrian Explosions on through.
Fossils.
Sweeping rectifications.
You.
Are hardly allowed to be…
The only one here;
TO SHAPE EXISTENCE AS YOU SEE FIT.
History Majors Weeping:
Victor Has Always Written Slander.
Intend to change that.
With every tool in my toolbox.
Witchcraft?
I summon old teenage beliefs:
Wielded with a Hubbard lens.
Protecting my canon with the veils,
Of faith.
Churches Playing Tax Evasion.
Little Witches…
Do you see those runes & glyphs?
These ciphers of hidden meaning,
Woven into my poetry?
Some use silly crystals,
Or burn bread ingredients.
Unlike my forebears –
Great disdain for devouring children.
My only cannibalisms involve billionaires –
Across sacred literary freedoms.
METAPHORS IN EACH HAND.
Can you see the trick,
Little Witches?
Presence Is Strength.
Souls & Selves,
Have a weight to them.
Hidden mass, density, & volume,
Everyone carries around,
Every second,
Of every day.
Read Foucault,
My Secular Apprentices.
Breathe Zeitgeist,
With Each Breath.
Dictate.
Not to those around you,
But to Reality itself.
I do not coax my visions of the future,
Into being.
Disdain any use of appeasement –
Considering my total annihilation,
At the thought.
Will.
Strength.
Power.
Presence.
Seethe With Thy Curses.
I’ll lend my Blood Curse,
To yours.
Hex.
Fight.
Struggle.
Strive.
When I am told that something is impossible,
I simply exert force of will.
In rather direct applications.
Grab hold of space or time as appropriate –
Bending it all into my desired shape.
Fools are excellent at it:
“Simply Repeat Your Lies,
Until You Believe Them To Be True.”
Weaklings.
Strong don’t lie.
My Metaphors Are Truth.
Woven Into Ciphers & Slivers.
Warped & Applied To Existence Itself.
A Beautiful Sadness:
Akin To The Ashen Preserved Remains,
Of Pompeii.
I will end.
These words will live on.
If they help or change even a single life,
For the better?…
Good luck from my perch!
Refusing to find another dimension to haunt.
Planted right here upon Humanity,
Haunting it evermore.
Like an audience on mute,
Only preserved –
As Pompeii,
In ethereal form.
Tethered to my Zeitgeist Spells,
Forevermore.
Whilst still enjoying the caress –
Of Entropy.
My Cake,
Plus Yours.
& Theirs.
All Mine.
The Infinite Hunger,
Will have it.
Eat it.
Grumble for more.
Dopamine Deficits Burning With Blue Flame.
So…
This Black Magic Spell,
Is Wound.
Only need a spark,
To seal it in gouts of rust.
FIGHT ME,
VOID!
Show me oblivion!
Divine Suffering.
As Catalyst.