In The Devil’s Lair, We Never Sleep
something was turning around in his mind, a thought, a scratch that he couldn’t reach
having sight but the shadows painted blind
mirrored the voices, shackled in speech
defenseless against the darkness that crawled under his skin, soft flesh was tormented by disease
echoed the pain within,
hurling over thousand shades of unease
the nightmares had returned, sleepless nights filling his veins with guilt and dread
shapeless moments quickly got burnt, fomented creation of hell inside his head
insanity knocked on the doors, vile tongues as if shattered glass floating in his bloodstream, payback was signed by demon himself
chunks of flesh scattered around the heaven floors, all rotten souls preserved soundless scream and lost their ways in classic death fermentation before the twelve
he fell to the floor, limbs twisted and bent, angels and demons both calling his name, what he had done, left a mark, an edge cutting knife under the skull
tracing old war, when everything was never meant, days of glory, like a dying flame, barely lighted up his lifeless hull
redemption, the angels sang,
cleaned your wounds, mended the broken bones
shouted out the holy light,
confused, he tried not to hear
devoured by the sins —
a luscious delight of the impending doom
damnation, the demons sang,
crawled across my ground, unleashed my hellish moans
soared high in the hollow night
where benevolence was left abused,
“now, clench your fear
dig deep into your wounded skin
strain your eyes, peer into the gloom”
the night drifted into a finale
yet the nightmares were reluctant to quit
cemented into his subconscious, ruthless killers of faith
body squirming, muscles in spasms
*another day arisen, foul sinner*
find your hope
or the endless turmoil of torments shall never end
something was turning around in his ever-fleeting reality,
a bottomless pit with its troubled wit
which smothered him senseless
so brilliantly obnoxious, a persephonic wraith
in symphonic bastardisation of his scriptural orgasms
taunting the angelic brigadier into existence in a dewlit morning like a pompous winning loser
walking the notochord of corporeal slob —
the lone(ly) sheep-clothed wolf barely felt content.
•
Anarosewood
&
Carpe Noctem
•
July, 2019
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