Out of the closet
A veil of pitch descends upon the half-crazed omniscience of a God with no flame.
Thoughts, weary with frustration and the unfulfilled temptations of Desire, consume from within, fighting the soul, seeking guidance from an extinguished candle that exists solely to inflict pain.
Cold Death advances across the chill and barren land, seeking respiteâ€¦ wandering in, and out, of Love.
His slender fingers, brittle and decaying, trace lines in the dust of Man as the shifting sands disappear through the cracked and dirty hourglass of a Time long-forgotten.
Where have the Fates gone?
Who shall weave History now?
Without Beauty and Arte, will Love surely die?
Demons, embracing their drunken sleepynumb brainhaze, arise from the Stygian depths, scrawling sinister, swirling designs in the abandoned sketchbook of Life.
Corrupt, twisted ideas, maleficent and base, ooze forth from the wretched, dripping ichor of their forbidden and ancient stylus.
Fear and Loathing, the only true emotions, dance aggressively across the pages, shaping horrible, frightening visions of a future Time that will never come.
The demonic graffiti, perverse and pestilent in itâ€™s message, is crafted with a skillful purpose.
Depictions of religion and faith are rendered as grotesque, bloated caricatures:
Altar boys, on their knees, seeking Illumination, sucking from the Manhood of God, thinking, â€œI am blessed and highly favoredâ€¦â€
Innocent women, burned alive, bear witness to the frustrated dogma of a false and flawed religion that never wasâ€¦
Holy men, depressed, defeated, and flaccid in their spiritual impotence, assert their stern and rigid one-eyed persuasion selling indulgence and promising Raptureâ€¦
Ah, the harsh morality of denial.
Wispy tendrils of ethereal Intention stagger forward, useless, and unwanted as crippled angels, lacking compassion, shepherd them to a lower sphere of importance.
Ozone frays, envelopes fragile and forgotten dreams, seeping solace into every dim and hidden orifice.
Bitter, strained kiss of a mysterious love thrice removed, the awkward beauty of a lost language - perturbed, masturbatory excessâ€¦
The Universe groans as the birth pangs of guilt and fire overwhelm her.
Somewhere, anywhere, a baby cries, dripping fresh with the power of itâ€™s own glistening, unfettered Ego.
Where am I? I can no longer seeâ€¦
Aboveâ€¦ Beyondâ€¦ Withoutâ€¦Vagueâ€¦Emptyâ€¦
Lost in Darkness, and dead to the past, the future becomesâ€¦