Longing for the abyss

My swaddling cloth was my haven.
I was under the protection of the black angel.

I did not need sleep then,
for I rested in an endless sleep already.

I bore no weight then,
for I belonged to a time beyond history.

My fall into life is catastrophe;
its consequences, a nightmare.

Every breath I take is resistance;
every breath I release, a struggle.

Even while the heavens rest, sleep never enters my eyes.
Even while civilization runs without rest, my foot sleeps.

I think of it—my motherland.
I remember my homeland.
I mourn for Neverland.

A dim ache gathers in my heart;
I long for the abyssal arms.

From the exile, I write elegies.
The destinies there are uncertain.

I arrange praises for nothingness,
and they vanish inside its emptiness.

Perhaps this is precisely what it means to exist:
to be absorbed by the void, the ultimate home.

Life is not life.
Death is not death.
Life is death,
and death is life.

It is my struggle to exist,
in memory of annihilation,
that leaves my eyes fixed upon the horizon
for the sake of my lost civilization.

That empire has no name;
it rules beyond even namelessness.

That empire has no location;
it reigns beyond even placelessness.

I do not know where I exactly came from
or where I am going, forever heading.

But I see with absolute clarity
where I have never arrived, and never will.

This place does not pull me toward itself,
but through my whole being
I feel the ache
of somewhere that does.

Take my soul and bring me back to yourself.
I am freezing here, and I long for your cold fire.

Kill me, annihilate me.
Liberate me, set me free.

Let me dissolve in the darkness of the cosmos within your yoke.
Change my cage, sweet swaddle.

― Atrona Grizel