Of Sins, Souls and Swords

I know, my love, I have sinned
In a glorious show of slow contempt
With a step too late in good defense
I know I have died, and killed.
And slept by morning light
Stinking of yielded swords too many
Yes I was damned, and so did damn
In return, fallen souls too many.
I know, my love, swords and souls
Are my pride, my one forte
And I do claim so with good graces
Enough to wear my sins in places
Kept, in contrast, otherwise for things
Which are but still of my own makings.

I know, my love, whatever I say
Whatever I do, whatever I show
Will never be enough to take away
All I didn’t tell, secrets I didn’t say
Which is why my swords so hang
Always so ready at a moment’s touch
To be taken in, and used, and put
There where laughs are volatile.
My humour is well-spent, you see
Not on spilt blood, but on unspilt glee
And I yield, and laugh, and fall, and damn
Claim souls with my sword so good
For sin is too fine a word to use
To call my makings with a name, you see.

Correction, please

No, my dear.

I do not fill voids. I create them.

I seep in, suck the marrow out of you, empty you of everything. Wide, gaping abysses are my forte. I negate everything you know, annul all you are. Rescind without reinstating, overturning the tumult in you and scooping you hollow. Quash your atoms, turn them into mass-less dust, and let them swirl off into some unknown dimension. Leaving you with more than an absence, profounder for its dearth. 

I am the scythe personified. I am the poison you think is balm, and all because you fail to see. Your voids are more for my presence, blindfolded mortal. I kill and hack and dissolve, scooping and disbanding. 

What are you, compared to ranks of fallen humanity? If ever I have served a purpose, it is this and this alone.

I am the Void that was created to create more voids.
And you? You are one of my masterpieces.

The stars' to wreak

I have bared myself for the stars to wreak
The stars’ to take, the stars’ to deck
In ancient scars and unbloomed flowers
Breathing life from long-dead bowers;
And mere shards they are, nothing more
Fallen from glory, scattered on the floor
Beneath His feet, above my head
Mocking my Sanity’s drunken tread.

A renewed truce with the Hangman

Do not let the blinks fly away while the sun is still in the middle of its ritual. Of cleansing colours out of everything and transferring steady depth to anything that stands still long enough. 

Lines of mirages held down low.

Insensible mutters left adrift.

Teach me how to-

No. Don’t. I realized I know already.

Just stop the whirring inside, the constant karma of intangible webs.

And take back your scythe from me, please. And your gallows. And your sacks and chalk and axes too blunt.

Welcome back, old friend, to home where you belong.

Space warps and blowing up stars

‘’Oh you know very well we can never have enough of space warp and blowing up stars.’’

Blowing them up, huge and far, trailing scented ash in their wake. A comet tail for us to walk on later. And we will never be tired of extolling the many absent virtues that galaxies forgot to instill in minds.
Minds which, by the by, make invisible shards glitter with opaque sheens.

No, we will never have enough of blowing stars to smithereens. Of rocking our heads to cosmogyral beats. Blowing shiny dust on blackened hearts, blinking awe at still transformations.

And warps will forever remain our forte. Where Space falls short, we will put ourselves forward. Miniature dimensions folded up in cramped hollows. Fault lines canvassing our souls incognito.

We can never have enough. Of space warp and blowing up stars. Of wondering what they all mean, held in suspended gravity. The centers of their universe, asteroids that orbit us.
We are the warps, imperfect flaws on dimensionless magnitudes.
We are the blown up stars, scattering worlds like dust.

True Inheritance

We will find our true inheritance.

Not In the mad calligraphy of trees, like someone said, or a clear plunge into the pool of many betrayals.

In the rivers of blood flowing through those streets, and in the sunken skulls hanging on gold-rimmed tapestries.

In the whispering willows that weigh down under the burden of secrets too much to carry, and in the pirouetting fairy dust bringing gold magic into momentum.

In the translation of nonexistent dimensions, amid rooted galaxies in welkin rings inside my name.

Under the cliffs housing ricocheting falls, loosened catches of drowsy screams.

While sewing up the cataclysmic gongs reverberating echoes surging through my poisoned vessels, and after paraphrasing the blank pages spoken straight through conundrum.

But most of all, inside the dead washed up on the beach sand they said was golden down from heavens’ clouds. In the silent acknowledgements of cold horror that grasps the spires kissing the blue silk of sky.  In the sea waters that churns up rigged souls that were thrown out by solitary islands in the midst of red lagoons.

And in the clouds drifting past your eyes that are ashes left by a shooting star. In the rising tides that engulf the best of our laughs and give way to the most beautiful of the innumerable tragedies we personify. 

And in little erased flecks, in memos bursting from our tongues. In the many layered frequencies inaudible in their being, and in the spray of whispered apologies not breathed.

We will find our true inheritance.

Tell yourself that.

We will.