01-18-2019, 09:59 AM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
There’s a perfect little hole in the universe; the size and shape of exactly serpentine you.
How pleasant it would be if we each had a small pocket of the universe to call our own. How delicately perfect it would be if we fit like grains of sand, falling in against one another - each selecting a small little hole in the universe where nothing once was. What happens when that chair tips -- that noose tightens -- that hand tugs just a bit more at your throat (can’t you feel it, a pleasant pressure). Where does your soul-section of the universe disappear to? Do you give it up - other grainy lives shoving and tumbling to pick up where you last left off? Who will take your place when you are gone -- whose place are you taking now that you are here.
You should know, He never wipes his feet. He never shuts the door (except to lock you in). He is reckless (and calm and cool and collected and complacent) in His motions - He will not knock, He will not pleasantly request to come in -- He will sink through the cracks in the walls, permeate through the porous wood; He will transude into your terrain (the place you thought was safe, secure, a home tightly tucked into the universe). He will not be invited - but you will want him there all the same.
Again your thoughts explode into the space between (loud, so loud that he does not even try to find them) - you are confident in your carnage, that you could maul Him like a machete; that you are the apex predator, the dangerous thing. Your thoughts are vivid, vicious, a painting made at midnight while freebasing - smeared blood black, bits of bone stuck in the crevices of your mouth. He is unphased- regaled, one may even say- as your thoughts flow into His mind. You are a small scaled thing with dreams so dark, a hole in your body where His flesh and flourish should be. You seem to know this - that there is a gaping rip, a space between your growing ribs, cracks to be filled in the chambers of your heart - there is something missing here (missing like your mother, your father, your meaning to life; missing missing missing.
But now! Oh now! Now you have an unprecedented possibility; a gift left at your doorstep by the monster who just walked in. You are wary (so you have learned something in your young age-- beware the things presented so placidly to you. And yet, you come -- pulled towards that sweeping vortex, the tug at that tabernacled heart; you cannot step away, you cannot say no (even though there’s that warning, that indecision, that concern that yesyouaresure that something may not be right.)
What does magic taste like.
He could not tell you -- it is simply a part of Him. He can only imagine, as the tarpaulin of your face transforms- no longer a canvas swept of emotion (because oh, oh you must be brave) - but another picture all together. You have tasted something beyond yourself, and now there is no way to hide it. Are you the dangerous thing? Or have you just dined (none so delicately) on the most dangerous thing.
You speak -- oblivious to the blood following the rivulets of his wings, spooling from the skin you splintered, downdowndown to spatter lightly on his shoulders -- “Eight.” He speaks it crisply - short but solid in the dark that has crawled across you (not very much one for words -- he is shaking off the dust of eons away.) Eight - the symbolism of the perfect meaning, regeneration, completion of all possibilities, the neverending serpent.
How pleasant it would be if we each had a small pocket of the universe to call our own. How delicately perfect it would be if we fit like grains of sand, falling in against one another - each selecting a small little hole in the universe where nothing once was. What happens when that chair tips -- that noose tightens -- that hand tugs just a bit more at your throat (can’t you feel it, a pleasant pressure). Where does your soul-section of the universe disappear to? Do you give it up - other grainy lives shoving and tumbling to pick up where you last left off? Who will take your place when you are gone -- whose place are you taking now that you are here.
You should know, He never wipes his feet. He never shuts the door (except to lock you in). He is reckless (and calm and cool and collected and complacent) in His motions - He will not knock, He will not pleasantly request to come in -- He will sink through the cracks in the walls, permeate through the porous wood; He will transude into your terrain (the place you thought was safe, secure, a home tightly tucked into the universe). He will not be invited - but you will want him there all the same.
Again your thoughts explode into the space between (loud, so loud that he does not even try to find them) - you are confident in your carnage, that you could maul Him like a machete; that you are the apex predator, the dangerous thing. Your thoughts are vivid, vicious, a painting made at midnight while freebasing - smeared blood black, bits of bone stuck in the crevices of your mouth. He is unphased- regaled, one may even say- as your thoughts flow into His mind. You are a small scaled thing with dreams so dark, a hole in your body where His flesh and flourish should be. You seem to know this - that there is a gaping rip, a space between your growing ribs, cracks to be filled in the chambers of your heart - there is something missing here (missing like your mother, your father, your meaning to life; missing missing missing.
But now! Oh now! Now you have an unprecedented possibility; a gift left at your doorstep by the monster who just walked in. You are wary (so you have learned something in your young age-- beware the things presented so placidly to you. And yet, you come -- pulled towards that sweeping vortex, the tug at that tabernacled heart; you cannot step away, you cannot say no (even though there’s that warning, that indecision, that concern that yesyouaresure that something may not be right.)
What does magic taste like.
He could not tell you -- it is simply a part of Him. He can only imagine, as the tarpaulin of your face transforms- no longer a canvas swept of emotion (because oh, oh you must be brave) - but another picture all together. You have tasted something beyond yourself, and now there is no way to hide it. Are you the dangerous thing? Or have you just dined (none so delicately) on the most dangerous thing.
You speak -- oblivious to the blood following the rivulets of his wings, spooling from the skin you splintered, downdowndown to spatter lightly on his shoulders -- “Eight.” He speaks it crisply - short but solid in the dark that has crawled across you (not very much one for words -- he is shaking off the dust of eons away.) Eight - the symbolism of the perfect meaning, regeneration, completion of all possibilities, the neverending serpent.
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in