Speak of the old ways,
I know them.
Many of them,
Holding space for them in honor.
Yet the new ways exhilarate,
Bring blood to my face.
I have lived five lifetimes,
In half of one.
Breathing in people’s self.
Knowing them more deeply,
Than they know themselves.
Witchcraft.
Some say.
Monster.
Say others.
Disabled,
Cackle to myself.
Mad as mad can get.
The pills are helping,
Yet the universe refuses to bow.
My own reality is too paltry a distortion.
Hunger for the world,
To incite utopia.
Reign salvation.
Die some kind of martyr.
Like the rest.
Maybe this is my magic,
Reason crossed with knowing.
Seeing everything,
The infinite possibilities.
Seeing truths.
I refuse to lie anymore,
Only to see things as they are.
These cold grey eyes see it all,
Twisting of your heartstrings.
The twisting of the knife.
Absolution.
Society loves serial killers,
Because it loves dangerous men.
I chose the path of the pacifist,
After learning how to kill.
Knowledge is power.
I am incredibly powerful.
With such,
Comes responsibility.
The words of the fictional dead,
Trope to a fault.
The masses love it.
The artists hate it.
Swoon for death,
She adores it.
Do you wish I adored you?
Fell at your feet like the others?
You have to earn my love.
It is gained like trust,
Burns hotter than the corona of Sol.
Would you know beyond,
The petty bounds & bonds,
Of Terra.
Love me from afar.
Old Ways.
