disfigured by their cravings.
tempted like devils to shine brightest in the sky.
impaled on their shadows.
they murdered their bodies to release their souls.
then they murdered their souls to free their bodies.
they too seek a savior.
craven by the object of his revelation.
they build themselves a martyr
because they cannot kill themselves.
because they let themselves be forgiven.
their salvation is apocalyptic.
their gods are bereft of mythologies.
their rapture was patterned on a fading song.
they just want to dream somewhere else.
their vertigo plays patterns.
they don't thirst where they pray.
they lament the darkness.
they negate the night.
freedom from life is life exorcising itself of its own vigor, impure, hostage to an endless vertigo which exalts all the perverse possibilities which come with annointing oneself the finger of god. a magic knot played by numbers haunts our infancy like an evil apparition. death is the cure for men whose incarnation is a blasphemy against the illumination that is imprisoned in this shell. hearts devoured in this space yearn only for a getaway, which climaxes in oblivion.
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