Affliction (Cantos 5-8)

5.


To witness it all before I can allow it to die...

through what horror,
born the exudiate
of what terrible affectations
will mask a soul

yet, beneath the skin are darker things
the keep of memorae
and the bask of this midnight
disease which corrupts with
nothing more than a touch

hidden within the heart
of this world, insensate to
the golden symptomology

we can be reborn or die
in any given moment—
one another's devil or savior,
whatever the season requires of us
to suffer these convictions,
like addictions...

there is still e'er too much untold.

6.

The pain drive--—
shrieking in the hallowed dungeon
of the heart; cursed or condemned
to the truth

he came down from the hill
heir unto those ancient houses
of the Moon, another chile
borne of Mother Night

there is always the presumption
that our own daemons are the most
corrupt... prone to a uncontrollable
blindness, our own heart and
its actions untested to either cause
or effect

the Moira are not so fortunate
as to dream of our own salvations--
only to submit unto the
current evil that a greater one
mightn't befall us all...

which will haunt and torment the heart and mind forever.

7.

"the warmth will eventually reject you,
but this coldness shall never release you"...

Borne unto the seclusion
for in all of those imaginary
lines-- a lover that sought
to keep and protect her

her mind was always suspect,
as that she perceived the world
merely through that stained window
of darkly colored glass, a litany
of truths within a house of a such
a fragile heart

she would never have
deliberately chosen him,
only to submit unto
such a debauchery was
more of affect of her own
self destruction

she might have forgiven his
indulgences, save that there
was no deliverance

"let Heaven have you, if it wants"...

his laughter would not be
her final memory of him,
as he caste her battered and
broken body unto the sea

likely unaware of what a horror
he had created inside of her
as he watched her-- a'float
within that small pool of her
own blood, which eventually
disperse into the vaster humor
of the tide

'Mama,' that child's prayer
unspoken, yet still heard--
her delirous and still mortal
body recoiling downward
as her spirit was lifted away
unto that dark, beautiful of
Mother Night

8.

And become her this
dark lady of the tides...

the Moira are more vast
than the heart may want
to tell, the sophisticate devils
that mankind had unforgiven
to forgottenance

an incredible creature to all;
save the eye that is willing to
stare on past its own thought
of what could and what should never be

we are a small and wicked voice
of such an infinite cause...
of a temptation
to escape the heart and lungs
that which will never relinquish
us from the fate we, Moira and
man, had begun within the warmth
of flesh

screaming our prayers of watery torrents,
tasting our own idols of malicous fruit
and of that which can never be recomposed
once it has been bitten by the death-worm;
which infects us all with such painful disillusionments

That we must be forced to create
fresh allusions of those phantom-hearts,
that all once held sacred becomes
once again, composed of dust
and diverser devils than we had ever
sought to communicate
into language-- and suffer that it
may ever be spoken of

dreaming aloud.

Peace,
Po