Introspection into fragmented self; is it real?
In the pretence of beauty, I seek the holy,
Yet, all I find is the skull and the seal of death!
Oh, divine still, the sickness broods within the corpse,
And arises in cascade of maggots, now taking form;
Mephistopheles, with his stark, lean figure, rises from
The Heart - his sunken eyes betray coercive intent, his
Hands stretch towards me... I am under the spell, goaded
Into action; ‘tis not my will to destroy and kill! O, the
Flower-beds seem to beckon me, down into the embrace
Of sweet memories, and yet, the scent feels unfamiliar,
The vestige of normalcy fades... I am betrayed! Betrayed
By the self, whose hands seem only to dispose of love and
Fashion hate out of misery; Mephistopheles, in the shadow
Of thine horns, on the meek I cast the thorns of revenge!
Breaking from every divinity, but Time, I stumble through
The fields of roses, a stranger, in search of a friend... But
Look! The sky darkens and murmurs in thunder-tongues,
Blazing infernal fire, it casts upon me leaden rain, which,
Wearing on my conscience, kills the flowers in the field.
O, how much longer we have to reconcile, and divine the
Future that’s ours to create; we must plant the seeds of love,
Lest we’re devoured by pride and hate. But I am not a gardener;
Still, I walk the fields, caressing the flowers to the best of my
Ability; I fear I am a destroyer, whose hands have wrought the
Swords of war and torn the boughs from virgin’s arms - oh, mothers
Cried, widows wept; but these eyes, they haven’t a tear to shed.
I gaze emptily, from my dwelling place within the hearth, I seek
Revelation of higher spirit, but God, oh, He never departs from his
Palace of Virtues; out of fear, or sadness? Wouldn’t You come, Father,
And descend upon your sons; bloodied hands of fathers bloody the hands
Of children - can’t You, Sphere-Maker, wash them in your saffron light?
Or are we forever lost?