Posts Tagged ‘Evil’

The days insanity has come to an end,
Your body is weary,
Its defences worn down to soft grain,
Your head pounds with harmful influences,
You lay it down to recuperate,
Upon your factory of dreams,

Unforeseen the silence crawls over you,
And with it the demons multiply,
Salivating over the cracks in your psyche,
Malicious maneuvers in the dark,
They would ravage you like countless hypodermic needles,
Save for the defence resting above your bed,

An arcane symbol from the first nations,
Molded of willow and spider sinew,
Spindly weaponry of Asibikaashi,
A conduit through which your dreams can be mobilised,
As an aetheric crusade against the night,
Old magic to protect you until the morn.

The eve grows fatigued,
And your eyes along with it,
The shapes in the corners grow contorted,
Monsters hiding in the periphery,
Raving as you sweat bullets,
Shudders in your limbs,

You feel dark eyes upon you,
An undeniable weight,
Your heart rate begins to sprint,
But you dissuade your own chills,
T’was merely fear of the night,
You lay your head down,

Something sees from the rafters,
Not a revenant,
But a ghost of flesh,
An adept of a grim mantra,
A bladed shadow,
And it seems you’re the mark,

Sleep keeps its distance,
Shudders radiate in your marrow,
You clench your eyes taut,
Something drops to the floor,
Black garb flowing like water,
A shadow approaches its prey,

Eyes and edges behind obsidian silk,
Sleep of a kind is here.

I feel off-kilter,
Somehow weighted to one side,
The mind hangs in the balance,
A set of scales nestled in our egos,
Ungodly yet ornate,
Lifes events are as weights on one side or the other,

Life can bring circumstance of both good and bad,
Too much of either can be destructive,
Positive and negative,
Success and heartbreak,
Narcissism and misanthropy,
Use these events as lessons not additions to your id,

Either weight dropping is a fell stroke,
One way leads to decadence,
The other a fall to adversity,
Both are forms of insanity,
Both will destroy your own soul,
Both are evil by different modus operandi,

Do not allow your scales to dip,
One must strive for balance,
Be as a pendulum,
Map a safe travail through lifes hills and valleys,
The ups and downs,
Protect your minds integrity.

Do you hear the chanting?
Esoteric words upon piscine lips,
Hymns out to sea,
A burg willfully forgotten by humanity,
A fishermans haven turned nightmare,
Towers held aloft by stone tentacles,
This decrepit ruin of a town contains a dark secret,
Even the moon looks away in fear,

Prayers made amidst undertow and rock pools,
Bubbles and salty mist rise up in chorus,
A cacophony of groans and briny gargles,
Praise to a god not dead but sleeping,
At once the chanting dies away,
A dire shape appears under the waves,
A hunger unknowable,
An apocalypse summoned,

Dagon.

I could tell you of numberless beasts,
My voice could be a bestiary,
Of sirens and goblins and demons,
Of dragons and gryphons on the wing,
But instead I speak of a creature not of nobility,
But cruelty given wings,
Sadism in the sky,

You’d be forgiven for believing it a vulture,
An unkempt avian with a fair maidens gaze,
Perched atop the expired skeletons of trees,
Indeed it is a glutton for mens hearts,
Both symbolically and physically,
She will gladly carouse with you,
Winning your heart before plucking it clean with talons,

Beware the harpy,
For the nectar she offers is bile,
The words she speaks are barely contained storms,
Her kind have scavenged for eons,
Leaving legions of hoplite bones behind,
Curiously graceful in their barbarity,
Flight wasted on cruelty.

I know of a place,
Supposedly above us all,
A hive of powerful insects,
Within a gothic revival cathedral of the politik,
A nest of invertebrates in fancy suits,
Exoskeletons with party badges,

They titter to each other with slavering mouthparts,
Which service for the poor do they consume next?
Which welfare element to scavenge from?
Arguments made in clicks and buzzing,
Elected and opposition bicker in a childish game,
One that the electorate lose every time,

The hive walls writhe as the swarms debate,
Their original purpose drowned,
Feasted upon by mandibles myriad,
Now the numbers must only rise,
Compound eyes scanning statistic analyses,
Claws rubbing together in hunger,

This infestation is beyond purging,
You voted for this,
This elitist hive of twisted democracy,
Allegiance to the party colony is all to these villains,
The people are simply a source of sustenance,
I fear they too can be the only effective insecticide,

Raise your voices,
Don’t fall prey.

You would not have noticed me,
It’s entirely alright,
I am an essence blessed of mediocrity,
As I extol my virtues and values I am see-through,
I am every shade of grey between lifes colours,
The type one walks by while looking at the sidewalk,

I’m nothing special,
Barely subpar,
Middling at best,
A gemstone found to be fake,
An unnoticed epitaph of a man,
A walking grave of someone with promise,

I write cold tales and impish sonnets,
A doomsayer and miser on a street corner,
You would not have heard of me,
But it’s alright,
I am nobody,
I am nothing.

Among the dank forests of mud and blood,
You catch the scent of cauldron glub,
Ingredients combined in a frenzied hubbub,
Magical energies coalesce in a flood,

Sticks and stones,
And forest animal bones,
Among leather-bound tomes,
Not to mention victims groans,

A hag lives here,
Behind mask fashioned from skull of deer,
And ornery robes of woolen shear,
Many centuries alive has this grey seer,

Dare you not irk her,
Lest you lose all your heads fur,
And see frogs pads where your hands were,
Followed of course by a cold grave inter.

Words fall upon my work,
Daggers of syllables and critical edges,
This deluge of societal pressure grows tiresome,
You must do it this way they proclaim,
Overbearing suits looking down,

They extol rules of grammar and structure,
Scripture of artistic canon,
Why must art follow a blueprint?
Does it follow a routine?
Is it supposed to follow monotony?

I am no revolutionary,
But I write in anarchic tones,
I create as a spirit of chaos,
It is as spraypaint wind,
My stanzas form as they may,

I am no vandal,
You shall never find me looting or pillaging,
But I shall create as I do,
I simply cannot succumb,
There are no rules to my art,

I’m an anarchist.

Aloft I hold this charred skull,
In the parlance of Hamlet,
Mocking the heavens,
Eye to eye,
Ocular to cavity,
Azure to dark void,
A hateful grimace grows across my face,

I feel the desire to interrogate this spectre,
Of inevitability,
Of decay,
Of entropy,
Of black veils and autopsies,
The unwanted rest and ones left behind,
Of an end like a runaway train,

I hate all of it,
I hate you death,
I resent the fires of hell,
And the zephyrs of heaven,
I hate your wielder of the scythe,
I hate that you force this rot upon us,
I hate that this all ends,

In the laconic gloom,
I swear the skull grinned back.