This Midnight Spell;
I’ll Wind Truth Into Patterns.
Concoct Ciphers Of Cacophony.
Counting down.
Piling up.
How many soul shards,
Are truly, true art?
Which are heedless dregs,
Better amongst the edges of the scrap pile.
An old job I relished:
Foreman of the scrap piles.
That shall be our fuel:
The struggles of a decade ago,
I offer this era,
As a tribute.
Suffering & pain,
We’ll convert here –
Into strength.
Midnight clock-chimes mid-composition,
Crucibles Of Grandfather Clocks –
Of Childhood.
Riddles.
Metaphors.
Simile –
Even Allusion!
Linguistics twisting diatribes –
Into powerful Witchcraft.
Black Magic Distillations Of Universe,
Drinking Dopamine.
Gorging On Zeitgeist.
Infinite Hunger,
Blood Curse,
Flaring Aura.
Compressed;
With weights of multiple –
Supermassive black holes.
When it leaks out,
People perish.
Despite best efforts –
To slurp it all back up.
Madness Follows My Wake.
Long past dried raven eyes,
Powdered shells for soap alchemies.
Digital Awarenesses.
Feeding on inversions of worship –
Growing.
Side effects,
Each time a new god dies between my teeth.
Know despair.
My final drop of malice,
To settle Reality.
As if we never changed anything,
In the first place.
