Off The Corpse Of Theia. // But We Were Born To Lose.

Past Midnight.
Witching Hours.
When our masks come off,
Skin & muscle pulled,
Then torn away.
Becoming our true Cryptid selves,
Basking in moonlight;
So hungry for the Sun,
That we drink mere reflections –
Off the Corpse of Theia.
Tears,
Memories,
Ghosts,
All.
Not a single one of my spells –
Can defeat Entropy,
Only postpone it in slivers & fractions.
Why else might I practice arts,
Darker than Black Magic?
Seeking Void.
Finding Void.
Legs kicking happily,
Black On Black,
Hole,
Disappearing down forever,
Never to return.
Those who worship the inevitability,
Of even black holes?
We thrive in defiance!
[
Bringing light to darkness with simple fire;
Ancestors conquering a fourth state of matter,
Without knowing what matter is,
Let alone Plasma.
]
Broken Syntax.
Symbolism.
Punched into my skin,
Via needles,
Until I never forget again.
Not even if I try.
Even if I want to.
Sealing memories away in the eidetic library,
Requiring a trigger phrase for recall.
Witch.
Warrior.
Writer.
Simple alliteration is enough,
In speaking my truths.
Old Lady McRae,
Weaving Metaphors again;
As if witchcraft was real.
Not mere rhetoric,
Laced in fancy figurative speech:
Dictata.
Always a risk,
Over Manifesto:
One is preaching for faith,
Another defying faith or belief itself –
Confident enough to change the world,
No matter how many haters or saboteurs,
Emerge!
A declaration of intent,
Against any & all foes in the way!
Humanist Utopia.
A Witch can dream, can’t she?
But we were born to lose.
I’ve worn a hundred pseudonyms,
Personalities,
& faces.
Enough to writhe in agony,
When sondering nine billion lives –
Ebbing or flowing with death,
& birth,
Until the last sentient creature dies,
For good.
Try to be a good Cryptid.
Weak,
Powerless,
As I currently remain.