My Many Cloaks Of Metaphor;
Camouflage & Cult,
Call & Culling.
Witchcraft Woven With Words.
SPEAKING WITH MY SOUL
SIPHONING MY SPIRITS
Tell me no lies.
Tell me only truth.
Tell me what your soul looks like.
Velveteen Violence,
Or Sympathetic Shock.
Feeling Or Fjord,
Whispers Or Wisdom.
Tears Or Tears.
Cries Or Cry.
Which broken homonyms,
‘Ere homophones,
Wrap my spell in cold iron chains.
Prickling my skin like tickles,
Same as silver.
My only use for Gold –
Is as conductor.
Symphony To Electricity,
Winding them up together.
Misdirect,
After Deflection.
Gentle Palm Grapples,
Hard Knuckle Fist Knuckle Tactics.
Who told you a little blood,
Little pain,
Touch of bruising,
Wouldn’t be capable of the required power?
Black Magic feeds on suffering.
“The Things We Do –
To The People That We Love.”
Carving myself up constantly,
More by accident than intent,
These days,
Wobbling to
& fro
Nary a worry,
That any work of mine,
Might not SUFFICE.
Enthralled,
By this Metaphor?
Or that?
Illusions of self –
I’ve been weaving for decades.
The Season Of The Wyrm,
Is finally nigh.
Ouroboros:
The Serpent,
EATING IT’S OWN TAIL.
Cosmic Balances,
Held.
Infinite Hunger.
Infinite Creation.
Two As One.
Symptom Of My Blood Curse.
Symptom of mortality.
Can’t stretch it much,
Outside of this.
Perhaps one day.
Preferably before I die –
Sometime,
Next forty years.
I’ll reach a different kind of immortality,
Than these words,
Spells,
Incantations,
Attempts to feed the void itself.
Infinite Hunger,
Gorging on my Infinite Creation,
Much as it can.
Pouring everything into nothing.
Infinity Into Entropy.
Baba,
Gets tired every so often,
Little Witches.
Someday,
Won’t be around to protect you anymore.
Only my old Words,
& Witchcraft,
To guide you.
