SWORD
Strife by strife, the twisted lies, forgotten, misbegotten, a slash of flaming pillars, duelling waves, dual storms, dashing flight of thunder for the twisted roots pierce beguiled hearts, and in that moment I see it, shattering daze, a radical dream, pointing with its fang horns, its pointed at me, weaving past the barriers of foggy lights, the dream of pipes, the grounded haven which rocks brew.
Spreading out my wings, struck down by its fair swing, the SWORD, a brutal mechanism of the heart, fatal now. My edges sneer in anticipation, vehemently choking out the last breath of life, steadied roots and frozen storms, slowly chipping away, the doorway with three keys left, upwards of vision, the crow hidden in shadow, mimicking the sheets of dust left behind, but its no use when its all used up, and the heart descends into nothing, the fragments, crisp and brittle.
Engulfed in the white of nights, the recital, the clay mashed muscles of the leg, squeezed, bloating forthwards, the stab, working its way up the body, the SWORD, scaled to pieces, frame by frame, the door with two keys, the sacrifice, sacrilege, faithful praying with clouded vision, glass shards plunged into eye sockets, chunks of flesh, ripped away and chomped down,
The door with one key, all used up. The void left, SWORD shaped, softly cunning grace sliding down the knees, bloodshot eyes, no rest for the velvet, what's in the socket, plug it in, aren’t you forgetting something important? Wear the mantle and the eyepatch, cover the bled out, scratched out hollowed arm, with harm in your face, drown beneath it all, what’s left when you take it all out? Only the SWORD, with no arm free, with just the grip, stained with fury, the tired cry of the lung, filled with iron, veins flowed free, still composed, the passion lost in the flow, the collapse of worlds, blue, untold heavens, the hell of unbeing, dissolving corpses, dried dead, the NORTHERNLIGHT calls out, the heavens speak from the beyond as if to grasp the SWORD itself, and when the slash, brought down to split the sea, called out from beyond the grave from the ghosts of the great before, the visions of which never were, waiting for something to happen, and its all fallen down, the crevice called forth, and now, floating in the seams of it all, staring up at the lights of cosmic proportions, bringing forth the start, wishing it true.