Erupt
grotesquely and
exquisitely.
The void is yours.
Blast torrential shards that
gore eternity.
Detonate
the eye of the storm.
Meticulously curate
this ideal specimen
of intricate terror,
ultimate and everlasting.
The void is yours.
Make it special.
Build your demon.
Give it a home.
Mutilate shadows
and butcher the dark.
Rip fury apart
and hang it
from hooks of wrath.
Maimed
heart,
your
light shines the other way.
To
others
you
look dark.
Sore
soul,
your
torn fire aches
and
waits alone
for
what it has lost.
The
child cries
as
demons eat the world.
Tears
water the earth
but
only hollowness
grows
and
grows
into
this expanse
where
the bruises dwell
and
pray to rot.
Ripped
and tender
edges
sting,
afraid
to heal,
refusing
closure
in
frantic hope.
Listening.
Listening
hard.
The
distance
feeds
a fungus
where
the child
needs
to speak.
Cloaked
in leprosy,
the
perpetual roar swells,
incinerating
the real
and
glazing the right
(the
only thing that matters)
that
catches your
inward
beam.
And
I see it.
Every time
Turn me toward the
Campfire
Toward its crackle
And smoke and
Murmurs
Instead of the
Exhibition
Where the light
Makes me the spectacle
For us to learn
Nothing from.
Every time
Turn us toward the
Stars
Toward their distance
And history and
Brilliance
Instead of the
Plains
Where the glare
Bombards us, demanding
That we praise
Its glamour.
Every time
Remind me of the
Glow
Where I can see you
And you can hear me
Every single time.
