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Hollow Geometry
Whispers of siren
Scotoma: the flight of snow geese over a sunspot.
The cataract dissents; the sight is perfidious: predator and prey.
The nightfall embers and the road to Camelot amid the mist of Avalon in the falls of glory.
In the lair of dormant hosts echo the tales of ruptured bonds.
Consigned to limbo, a madman grazes his scabrous flesh; he, too, drowned with the God of promise glaciers.
Pearls in the seas dance at blue hour and feast upon the nails of seafarers; maidens grovel in the snow from seven years past to bear sons of the all-father’s inseminations of spectral chalices.
Monoliths of misconstruction ravaged, on desolate swamps of frost is their tundra of memory lapse.
The orbit of their melancholy is labyrinthine; the sphere of change is but the vestige of a broken-up bluff.
In pellucid cloth of ashen cotton are the crimson stains of a rusty chain.
We, beholden to existential trembling, reap the withering scales of Leviathan; our likeness adorns the burial halls of disintegration and lonely strains.
Disassemble the almighty; his blood is vapor.
Unsheathe your ancient past, for thy dust of tomorrow is the salt of captivity of silent messengers, sailing the wayward shores of suffering winds.
The decaying sun set on the rubble of a decrepit city: come ruin and rapture; on sacred slabs speed the chariots to the stygian gates of purgatory.
Necrosis: a dismembered corpse have you become on the furthermost sanctuary of nirvana.
Revere thy wounds; upon eternal sedation — devoid of arctic hysteria — the sirens of the west emboss unto thy bones: “Thy perch has fallen. Come, heed the revelations of a stolen silence; past the oblivion fields is the hollow geometry of a failed utopia.”
