Canticle

Degrade

Alas, nightfall beckons.

The shadows of one's past follow the trail;

A trail no longer, thus a path of utmost amputation.

It offers nothing except the deliverance of evil.

But tries to show itself as an aid.

It closes in, closer, closer, closer.

Until its appearance is one of the fathers.

The comfort brought from said figure reminds me of home.

Warm, secure, the scent of rosemary,

Vivid flavors of the sky.

Familiar, is it not?

It remains dark, yet delicate.

Delicate like the mother's soft touch,

Dark under pressure.

But my heart feels much lesser.

Becoming of a man? Not such.

No love, just pressure.

Degrading, lesser and lesser.

I have hit the bottom.

Deliverance promised, became a drill.

But there is no more ground.

It came out the other side,

And I started to see the demon within.

I know what to do,

Escape and see what lies beyond,

And when I make it,

I become an actual man.

With their pressure, much lesser.

 



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