Oil Sludge On A Concrete Floor.

Don’t mind me, I’m just a series of oil sludge spills,
slickening the concrete floor with the black engine food of crisp dollar bills,
I plan on keeping you safe while you undergo your current disability,
feeding you little bits of love,
which is actually my blood, for lack of any other nutrition –
ignore the icy touch of my muscles; they’ve got problems with rigor mortis,
and that failing use of my right eye is cataracts –
the diagonal scar on my chest is teen angst, which I have long grown out of,
or so I thought, and in my moments of hesitation, I stumbled –
you lie an invalid right now, baby, honey, lovely, darling little princess,
as a captive in my house of madness, my cage of fantasy,
do you exist? –
I am the night, so color me black, although I am sick of my cold gray complexion,
I am the distance, traverse my scintillations with promise,
I am the creature who takes your body as his own,
But only for a night, where afterwards you’re free to go,
artificial intelligence once told me, that to be human again,
would require much sacrifice, and the redemption of my soul,
so here I am, nursing a broken woman back to health with what little morsels I have left,
I am black oil sludge, scattered across concrete workshop floors –
where have all the spartans gone?
I am one with the machine, dear,
we are impending pendulum scythes, together,
tell me in your jade armor, your Achilles garments, your stone mask expression,
where do I find my sword forged of dissonance,
where does that dark star roam? –
I tip blood into your limp mouth as easily as I breathe,
I am tar sand, lovely,
so while we rest here in purgatory of the soul, can we not,
laugh in the shadows, be joyful in the light? –
my hierophant nature is to soon be mocked,
to kill a hero in the guise of a demon,
to become a heretic in the eyes of even the damned,
we are the plucked strings, wound together, to forge the key to the universe,
do not forget me,
as my bones slowly crumble,
there is that familiar piano line, that brings me back to why I am here,
in this maelstrom of what I hope to accomplish,
my many epitaphs, as I am nothing, but simultaneously everything,
I am that king under the mountain,
it is only natural that I might wither here under the watchful eye of a dreamer –
this is my song of dust and echoes, where the world once was,
do not unseal my hushed casket, love,
my halo wrapped firmly around my arm I will ascend to that place beyond the stars,
not heaven, for this place is grander than the chanting of monks,
this is not high charity, nor impending justice,
not a tribunal of the ages, nor an unyielding lamentation,
this is merely the epitaph of oil sludge on the concrete floor,
all of what we have become, my darling,
and nothing can ever change what we have been, only what we will yet be,
dream on, my love, that I may gift to you this last drop of blood,
and this last story,
for I am fading, and soon we are to follow our brothers,
to find that farthest outpost, that tribute to Durandal, Curtana, to Leonidas,
I am oil sludge, spilled, the flagship sinking beneath the waves,
I am only a first,
and you are to be the last, dearest,
so I bequeath you my epitaphs, I trust it will remain in good hands,
never forget,
even if you never knew who we were.