veins of pluto, solidifying plum ichor in my trenches sustaining the assemblage of the dark ilk. emollient lilac, your fetching fragrance clings to all the pages in the sanctuary, eternal garden within leather leaves. the fingerprints of my slanted handwriting are supposed to tell a story in its curves, dips, and shanks, but that is a memoir that should only be deciphered; a puzzle of the soul, and the prize is terrible - instead, see the immaculate chaos of dreams become corporeal where your name is a word of power imbued with ancestral prowess and the blessings of Them, an opulent palimpsest, each one more intricate and excruciating than the last. and that is what it is like, when I create.
a queasy sensation eggs my limbs into shuddering left anointed by the sweat that pools in my chest and reminds me of the anvil that sits there; heavy-limbed and hard of hearing, there must be something that will carve away the diseased edges of this anxiety, left rumbling in the crevasses of evernothing. shaken and chased to the ends of the underworld, where there was no shelter, it willed itself into being. and so, I too must be the underworld: a willful being, creator of sanctuaries that only some will see are meant to be a bigger part of me.
every echo is an epiphany of the essence you ended with me;
she calls for evermore,
deep within the guilt-ridden reminder
of their every step towards her,
and it is with great trepidation
that the last of their kind lay down the guns
that have extinguished so many of her kind.
by the flames of their ire, do the glass panes rattle
bitter heartaches and soot-smeared hymns;
a cacophony of heresy screams from the center
where pastoral eyes and timidly wounded children
were demanded to watch the burning of their ilk
like dirty laundry aired over a bonfire.
a jewel of culture, where trade is all faith and no fathom
they cannot allow nor tolerate those that chose
to follow a love they will not understand.
have you tasted wine so sweet
as one of sun-kissed grapes?
the revelry that flourishes under my hand
we drink deep in thanks every twilight,
and come morn, we lie grateful in the dirt,
the smallest of fires burning inside with pleasure;
the moon never taught me so much about your body before
I must give thanks for the stupor you have put me in
your laurel crown of plenty has smoothed my features
a river of plying kisses and softened beds,
you would never guess olympia was ruled by immortals,
the way we savour mankind.