Born with only the will to fight
In this sphere where might is right
Seeking purification through stormy days and endless sleepless nights
The fleshly tenure is untenable
It has learned to aggress to repress
The heels free of arrows and broken greaves
The man feels nothing when he leaves
Practice for departing on the last journey
Yet his last misstep was to give into tender thoughts
Past physical pains limping admonitions is the worst battle he has ever fought
Pitted knuckles, scars carved into him by the gods
Nemesis, too, has his fun
'First there was chaos,
Vast immeasurable abyss,
Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild'
This inner world makes of this state a psychological fetter
Impassioned for a later day Caledonian
Finding the empty pleasure of the lotus-eater
Ares abandons losing battles like the best of the cowards
That harlot, with her retinue of furies
Impertinent flashes of burned memories- skin cold blue, lips tinged with vomit
Cold skin that chilled his heart
'Life giving, healing every ill', he drowned himself in Dionysiac depth
Erasing the passions, erasing the pained attachments that drug him closer to the three heads of Cerebus, growling his name in their sleep
where death seemed to dwell, in that dark space beneath his scattered dreams
Discarded, wilted flowers, there is no help for him in his darkest hour
Erebus unfathomable, awaits his favored tenant
Passing the light of Artemis on a blood red night with that stoic post
Perhaps, perchance, all parsings of the possible, yet hope is a vain thing
That which he missed most was the moments when he felt human
masochistically seeking pain, he remembers that mystical thing that it was to be happy
Retentive, he sees her stalking in the creases of the night
Seeing nothing in those ashen perished faces flooding with tears
Yet here he feels after all the years
What a way to discover that indeed you have a heart
Evolution is exponential biological pollution
Headed toward that final extinction
Where Caligula and the Medici Pope draw lots for who will make the first introductions
God looks away when the Priests rape
Or when they spend their alms in a drunkards bender
It's hard to compose a beautiful Libretto
When you are only a tough prole from the ghetto
Whose undying luck keeps him from the Bowels of the devil
He left that cave, with it's inmates and false intimates
A collusion of the deluded amid fatalistic stochastic determinism
To be a man
Is to do all that I can
To give no apologies
for explaining the basic moral tautologies
I will not suffer the little children
Who live only in hiding
I live according to my nature
Which means to scorn every trait that I justly condemn in hatred
you don't even have that power and longer
My mind is not your prison, and I have nothing more to ponder.
