Watch the sound of your fury, smell the color of your frustration, within this subtle darkness forged by your thoughts. Buried in yourself, you keep on moving forward through this swamp of rotten light; scourging your palate, with the faded gleams that cast out the sacred mud. Your steps still hold fast to the confusion and the trembling, but move forward, for I'm waiting for you in the very core of this swamp; wetted with the shining of the eyes of all those left out of the destiny's testament. Come with me, the heritage that was denied to you, rest in my mournful ark.
My blade is made out of blood and sperm, and can make a masterpiece of the straw in your eye. The gnats shriek the echoes of your memories, carved in the wax that gets old in pilgrimage toward the death's iron. I know they're melt by black bees in the souls of all those you met. If you come to me, you'll see that I can be confidant of your visions about the end.
I can see you possess painful memories. That's the reason of the vehement darkness. The gnats aren't enough for the memories you've sacrificed before the shrime of your hatred. Your hands aren't enough to get through the deafening darkness, filled with foul-smelling screams. Come to me, so that your holocaust will have the rare flavor of a narcotic honey. You'll be amazed to see coming back your soul mutilated, but triumphant, over the ragged deities.
My throne is a living heart, nailed on the thorns that crown the serpent. I'm the gift of a pagan god: worshiped by ancient people of beings that always were ghosts. The legend tells that the god was engage in battle with the principles that were about to enslave the nature of his worshipers. He won after a long battle, but a fragment from the baptismal font wounded him. Once it was extracted, was used to forge me. I was consecrated to the liberty that overthrow the desperation, the sorrow and the curse to the own being... To the will to scape toward the infinite. Great!, you keep a good pace, come closer, I assure you the gift of an horrible tenderness.
Your past is fermenting along with the excrement of starving rats. Rats whose last resource to survive was to stick on the reason. Very far, in your childhood, a paradise is crumbling over the nightmare that used to hide in your mother's womb. You dreamed in the hells of inquisitors minds your own dreams possessed by will to power. Angels cried out to your adolescence, but you, seized by the witch's profile, keep yourself on the track of the prophesies that spoke about rituals under the moon. In this dawn, you woke up grasping the decision... only to wait for the night. This night, in which you will make me flesh or your flesh. Ah, I sigh pain just to feel you so close! My promises are already transforming you into a gorgeous posthumous poem.
Now that you're before my shrine, after break through the thick wall of gnats; worn out by the burden of the laments that swarm in the whole wood; unweaving nerves that catch the spiders that build up the magic of my dwelling... I only request from you a little offering in exchange of my gifts: that your hand doesn't hesitate. My child, the last shelter of the light is place in my brightness. Take me, and you'll glare like the heavenly bodies without any orbit to draw.
Note: This prose poem belongs to the book: "Bottomless Tombs".
