The Morning Before The Earl Of Gurney Has His Vision Of Christ

“My mind is a sanctuary full of thorns

Where from the heart sprouts as a timeless rose;

O’ the beauty of this wicked distraction!

Not yet curdled to the dire taste of shame

Or the airless conscience of Hecated time

Following exteriors of contraction;

 

*sniffs up*

 

These stars are prophecies of my madness,

Fiery eyes reflecting the Sun as blackness;

Space is the projection of my desire,

Each convulsing spec picks out my soul

Transforming the guilt only I can own,

Leaving me alone to a love I transpire;

And who, which God abandoned me here,

Which faceless instance left me forever faithless?

Nothing, truly nothing, can budge this emptiness,

The comedy always chased by something near,

The tail circling it’s own vastness

Chasing the parallel of no circumference.”

 

*Stares at his reflection*

 

What grudge do I hold from the pitiless tomb

That renders my adoration of beauty

And drains me normal beyond belief?

It seems, as is the essence of facts,

That reminiscence is the result of something missed —

The parody we interlock ourselves to

Is the constancy we can barely see through,

Forging a reason to care… and what do I?

What do i care? I sacrifice only boredom,

I retrieve only what I give, underlining

The wish to find a God that surprises,

Starving the nourishment of a furnace

The destroys as it grows ever less and less.

 

Arosa: The gift you ordered for Ms.Truo has —-

Are you Okay?

 

No.. I have lost something.

But, I do not want to be sure of it.

 

What is it?

 

The grey board I found at sixteen,

The chalk I can now barely touch!

The grave I hoard from sixteen

The corpse encompassing touch!

Do you understand or do you hear?

 

Well, I believe I understand what I hear

 

Are you sure you don’t hear what you understand?

 

I am sure, my lord.

 

A thousand avenues of blood stain the wind,

A race enslaves itself to it’s own hatred,

An eternity exposes only potential,

An essence contains never as itself,

And I, And I… prefer to watch myself die

In the festivals of lonely madness.

 

What bothers you about it?

 

Why, why ask that?!

Everybody asks that!

They place a hope in God

Because fear paralyses them to idleness;

God can be anything

And that’s why his being

Is a certainty!

Ah! Nothing is certain!

The home of motion!

But they don’t feel themselves

As a piece of God —

Whether in science, philosophy

Or anything they become

And proclaim their essence!

But how does one become?

If you gave me an answer,

As something else,

I would most certainly

Question your composition of how.

 

Now, I don’t believe I understan—

 

Now, or forever

I know

You’ve been waiting to show

You understand,

How else could you hear?

You know, I know you know

Otherwise, I could not know..

Especially you, especially you at all!

 

Honestly, I am not —

 

Leave, think of what I say

And not how you responded!

There is magic in all eyes,

You just need to know

How to look…

 

Okay I —

 

Leave! Leave!

Run to the sun!

Run, I say!

Don’t come back

Until you’re lost!

 

*nods his head*

 

Go! Go! Run!…

Keep going,

Make sure there’s room

In the inn!

*Hysterical laughter*

O’ what a time… —

How perfect it is

To be confused as a child.

To be ideally diseased

Without knowing anything at all,

To never erect yourself

As something different from darkness.

 

*Faces mirror, pulls out sword*

 

And what about you?

What now, I say!

 

How, how did you find your self there?

Why did you ever look at a—-

 

No! You will not, don’t you see

The divinity of everything!

Nature, the void of love!