To Faust

What is an expression that can make creatures hate without words? What is it about Night that can make friends turn into lovers? Why must day be where we hide our fears, yet the night greats our tears. In a morbid state of unconscious and deliberate unknowing we pass from the birth of inquisition to hate and ludicrous at the thought of martyrdom. What are we a martyr for now? The old religion, which, in a state of utter loyalty and perfect annoyance has been destroyed by modern creations of despicable control called religion. Our love for conformity gives delicate moments that paint the sky with lightning so erratically placed that it fascinates. Tumbling fear corrodes the midnight wonder. Electrons passing from land to the kingdom above which I shall never know. Bulging jugular waiting for the knife. Sweet blood splatters in a disconcerting pattern flickered across the wall, glowing as the fire fly crushed between two delicate bricks, forced into the pattern by desolate minds needing control. Purposefully scented candle wax forms the sacred signs, cooled in the holy water.

What shape is it?
The Son?
The heir?

He loves us enough to give us death through spreading disease categorized by humans. The photographs of the past, greyed with envy and yellowed with deceit, they cry for the past that never deterred them from lying. So much incredulous pain that dares to be mocked by white toothed smiles, ignoring the crimson tears offered by the thief he has married. Thief of chastity and honour, yet martyr for her cause.

And now I have brought you in full circle to a martyr, but merely skipping the unnecessary impossibilities of intellectual quests for truth outside honesty. Outside mysticism and into the depths of uninformed science. The murderer of all released minds’ lover, mysticism that dips in and out of reality, making miracles of which the believers of magic are sceptic.

Will I ever know? The cockroach chewing through the page similar to lust that nibbles at the decayed flesh in my mind, slaughtered by inconceivable lies and truth and every foul and grotesque battle and last warrior ever uttered from pallid lips. Ever constantly reminds me of my enslavement to the written word, lost somewhere in Renaissance and Baroque and Rembrandt, hidden in Wordsworth and Romanticism, laughing from the eyes of the common observer to provide a quest in a time when heroism is a fantasy read in numerable books. Why? Because we long for it, whether to be the damsel or the damned, we yearn for some form of romantic fairy tales in modern life where swords are decorations upon the poorly lit wall and chivalry remains decimated.

By Suicidal Piety

I became part of the Wasteland at the age of fourteen... at the age of seventeen I decided to write about it. And thus... here I am.