Enchanting fables conjure a childhood of late
Swearing to endure the loss of a youth unrefined
Like fangs bathed in the naivety of a helpless lamb
I dream of a different kind of power.
This brilliant hour, equidistant of dusk and dawn
Where the moon has finally conquered the heavens
The sun is dying, its blood scathed
on the ashes of the final horizon-
Faces don ashen pigments, the inevitable sorcery
With which you preordained my heart
Writhing in pyrolatry, the thaumaturge is a
Practicing artist-
He decimates all that is beautiful to erect its pain
A lacking humanity sheaths arsenic daggers as
Volatile arrogance demarcates the venom of self obsession
Being beautiful allegedly is your burden to hold
But I implore you to reconsider finding warmth in his flames.
(Source: thewritersaddress)
