Like a wave of fire descending in judgement.

Burning me to the quick.

Thick with self-denial,

the trial of the Romantique.

Seeking truth

in the shallows of the rain forest,

poorest of the depths.

Having slept with the demons,

awakened to the silence

and foresworn the violence

in the best Buddheo-Christian traditions

made proof of the truth of a lie accepted with a smile,

while

all the while

knowing that in a medicated haze,

all praise is lies.

 

Pray for the wind.

 

Pray it will not be defiled by

this child of my blackened heart,

that my final torment will not be as epic

as the tragedy of false hopes,

fed the bread bought at Borders.

Filling chalices

with the urine of mad marketers

made rich on pain gained at the cost of the children.

And I

will ride the winds,

even if the only vector left is

down.

Down to the foot of the cliffs of the legends.

 

Pray for the wind.

 

 

 

 

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