the babel of end nine

we open our memories to strange undercurrents

and playback our patterns before paranoid eyes.
the unearthly comes up from within
like crayfish in a polluted lake, flanked by hounds of night.
before us are the towers. Of terror and horror.
a mean witch moon hangs like a barren breast
discolored, conflicted and uneasy. 

we follow the terrible trail of the lightning.
the sounds of our discontents peal louder than thunder
in that flash of revelations
we come face to face with our failures. 

we lacked courage and did not believe
we forgot our love for others as we jerked off to the music of our egos. 
a beaten drum, marching us into depths of isolation. 

we became deluded, dismayed and wrought with addictions.
then escaped back to our parasite prisons
dried up upon the wasteland
spittle, lost and sizzling in the naked heat. 

o godless
o fallen

every black hole finds a heart. 

the warrior god will soon be retreated.
a vague and wandering figure
resigned and somewhat resolved
counting old loves by the vulgar shores

we will miss the smell of blood
the wounds of our heroes.
we would hang up pictures of our fates and smoke our way through the darkness
we will find god in ungodly places
icons in the dusk of mania 

Then, we will  discover tongues of old
sing songs from the resurrection
and share sleep with the magi nomadic 
dreaming of saints in the hour of jackals.

we will slay dragons and age old monsters
eat at the table of kings.
we will find solace from the storms
and shelter in the arms of  saints

we will find ourselves again

warmed by the voice of angels

certain and assured
that The Sun has risen on our side again. 

Posted via email from AFTERVOLTER PRESS

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