No More Culling Rituals.
Force Of Will,
Playing True.
Always Forgetting The One.
For Decades.
Supercomputer,
Or that shitty Jack Black Panda Turtle.
Hell,
Dumb Disabled Logging Family Kid.
I cannot lie,
Unless joking.
I’m guilty.
Guilty.
I chose this Pygmalion Complex.
Laid Flowers,
Upon Graves.
Wept for Algernon.
My dead students,
Too.
Even one is too many.
Yet this Blood Curse remains.
Funny shaped head.
Born;
Spikes of cartilage,
Horns from my ears.
Who knows what damage,
Was done by stupidity.
Who I might have been.
I’ll never curse this world,
With progeny.
Only bear love ruggedly open.
Trying to fill my very reality –
With a love & acceptance,
I’ve never known.
Old Crone,
Never bearing an open heart herself.
Only drinking from the souls of others,
In proximity.
Blending emotions like a cocktail,
Merceresque extremes.
I only offer an inverse of Entropy itself.
You see.
Taking endless void from within myself,
To then pull inside out.
Like a sock or Felix Bag Gag.
Spreading light in as many exponentials,
As I can joy.
Both to excess.
Until I seek my familiar lonely dark,
Once again.
Witchdraft scribing hexes,
Close to most midnights.
“Goodnight,
Void.”
Eternal.
Balling up a Blood Curse like a snowball,
To throw playful from beyond the grave:
I’m gonna die eventually.
Maybe tonight.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe old in my bed,
Unlike Witchers.
Who is gonna wish The Void Goodnight,
At Midnight?
If Not Me,
Can You?
Somebody Needs To Tell Her,
Oft As Able.
Solo Poly;
As many of us ideally,
As possible.
Like Robbie Burns,
But Viking Funeral.
We can all love The Void,
In our own way.
As we invert our curves.
Cozy cottage core vibes,
Until you see drying racks of red meat,
In my smoker.
Realize all that candy,
Was simply glamoured coal.
Busketti.
Relax.
Only devour liars,
& Angels.
Prefer Infinite-Eyes-Rings-Wings;
Deep Fried.
Chayots when I can hunt them –
Peel them screaming off the throne.
Seldom can contain The Infinite Hunger,
It snaps them up as raw.
Long before I can consider preparations.
Old beasts,
Coming out:
Starving ourselves –
Only to shovel food down our gullet –
So fast we hold our breath.
Pale upon swallowing,
Breathing.
Hate ourself for allowing the Old Wyrm,
To so readily feast.
Dopamine-Starved-Deficits.
Steel Attempts At Resolve.
Remember That Old Ease Of Choice.
Baba McRae.
Old Witch:
Asleep.
Old Witch: Asleep.
