SERPENTS AND CIRCLES
the Illusion And The Refusal
Dearest Rebel,
Grandiosity replenishes this sour world, its roots dipped in kindness, which empties out in a flicker too soon, its replenishment an honor bestowed upon those of disposition gentle, filled with burdens, duty, and rule.
May such an honor never be bestowed upon me, for I only see a slumbering doom waking to righten the kilter if need be.
Such an honor where an engulfing kindness instills its throne in me, where those of demands employ gnarly claws, disguised ill intent as protective calls, to rob me and leave me with audacious words, “Humankind will benefit in your name; the fame will be yours.”
The Void Called Back
Dearest Rebel,
It was stolen from me, a rare occurrence. A prophecy of the seer with credence. The stolen were the bits and dusted crumbs, the walked paths of boredoms, the cracked walls with chipped paints which revealed the glaze dainty, ripe of musings, written with dull pain.
To look beyond the dawning veil upon the clear, I was invited to a void I recognised as familiar, glanced at the other realm past the awakening mirror, as it opened up a symphony of tangy colours.
With it the realisation came of how my admired sanity had been the fire to the caves and drunken nights to the sober days…
False Elixir, Real Bane
Dearest Rebel,
My blood bleeds blue from each sanctioned whip I took to my own pleasure, to remove it from the sanctuary built in inheritance of pain. My body bears rot, bare of any whiff signalling its existence, to deflect at the end being slain.
The pain at long last severs through old aches, planting new screams on a ritualistic night decadent with the moon in wane.
So that’s how it ends, but how it started? When did the elixir become the bane? The wish was the start, to become one with my enemy of the past, to merge with it soul to soul, sewed together embroidered with threads of brass…
©
Raevenora