~ No picture! Nothing would ever represent it. ~
Umbra: Why am I hiding? It’s burning in here.
Logos: To avoid a disaster.
Umbra: Another one?
Logos: No. The same one as always.
Umbra: Is it that bad?
Logos: Yes. I had to snatch you. You returnt spasmodically from your travels in disproportion, drooling to jump down any unfortunate flock that may inavertedly cross the threshold of years of naught.
Logos: Can you not even see that savagery of your itch?
Umbra: What do you mean?
Logos: Why look at yourself! You tore apart your own vestures and bled ferociously upon the altar of comprehension, sacrificing the skin of pretension during the funerary rites of sound and celebration of supine intervention.
Umbra: *chuckles* That must be painful.
Logos: Only you would laugh at the face of decapitation.
Umbra: Laugh a little, general. The world is always ending. What if there are no chains to break to begin with? What if neuroticism is nature’s way, and the stars cry because they want to? What have we fought for then all this time if not for an ideal which never was?
Raiding the skies for your ghostly light,
this twitching beserker wakes the Abyss
where all gates have gone to sleep.
Somewhere in this cradle of filth,
the rays of a sun reversed have injected me
with the venom of being.
Somewhere in this white darkness
burns the heart of a beast
whose claws’ only dream is to tear
all conception of idiocy.
Where are you!
You have left me here,
where the stars are the cause
of their own suffering.
Where are you?
How long will you hide from me
and deny me the medicine
of your silver anatomy?
Look, beloved, into the tidal string.
Thou hast forgot my image in no-time,
where all breaths breathe one memory!
Despair not, beloved.
Come with me into the new soil of being.
Plow the Earth with thy fanged fingertips,
and fertilize me with the might of cavernous conquering.
Sink three swords into the dirt,
and hold onto one as thy rest is confirmed.