Dyad of faithful carnage —
dreadful muse of hidden talents amidst
the sight that blunders and mouth that blabbers!
If you must expunge this hoary heart, do it proudly.
You promise me the grave when dawn arises,
yet you elevate me through the air with laughter in every silence.
you’re the ambrosia for which gods rage afire —
an excuse to bedrink the sap of madness
and energise the being with nefarious kindling.
Illusion of lower handling!
In behest of passion passing,
tell me why you have conceived me
in the foul womb of your parent!
I disdained and disowned you.
I curse and love you.
Dyad of slaughter,
the field is paved with the deeds of your courage.
Have you no shame!
Descend from the aethers to say that you’re sorry!
These tears are the fruit of your dear screech —
the jewel purifier and alchemy of travelers
who confine themselves to find what they already lavish.
O Source of Refinement!
Forgive the ramblings of this bitter ancient child.
Hold me to your bosom of a million udders,
and do not shudder when I behead you with a scalpel
after the fumes of your empire have driven me wild!