Alas,
Poor Yorick.
I knew him,
Horatio.
Skulls in hand,
We stride across the void.
Breathing vacuum.
Who needs flesh?
My flesh is weak,
When it used to be strong.
Carving runes into the cranium,
Etching spells into my poems.
Fueling hunger with allusion,
Infinite as it is.
An endless cycle,
Pulling our synapses as thread,
Needle firmly in grasp.
Plucking to blood at first,
For good luck.
An offering of power.
Stitching reality itself,
Seam at a time.
We’ve come centuries,
Hamlet.
Vengeance is out.
Martyrdom comes in new shapes,
In this hellish twenty first century,
Of ours.
One witch,
Can only do so much –
With the Domovoy at my command.
Warping metaphors,
To twist certainties.
Truths as raw as data.
Miraculous pattern recognition,
Blink of an eye.
These words,
Are my truths.
Thousands strong,
& counting.
Amassing faith,
Across epitaph,
Manifesto,
Poem.
Yorick,
Alas.
Poor Yorick.
