poetry under the sword

eternity speaks with closed lips
riding black upon a blessed sunset
captivated and capitulating
towards steps of
certain disgrace
we watch
metal misfits
wrapped in blissful sin
call upon the shadows
to catalogue the cadence
of another beer drenched night

sliding across dark daggers
we consecrate this
mental vice
in place of
pointless virtue
as the gods grant us
ghosts of blue animation
and the servants
become the masters

forget the morning
when gardens are bombed
in the name of empty beauty
the fruit flies fly,
the sparrows eat mad dreams,
and the serpents,
coiled in unrepentant unison
sacrifice sanity to sleep

devoid of deductive declarations,
how long can this performance last?



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