In The Devil’s Lair, We Never Sleep

something was turning around in his mind, a thought, a scratch that he couldn’t reach

having sight but the shadows painted blind

mirrored the voices, shackled in speech

defenseless against the darkness that crawled under his skin, soft flesh was tormented by disease

echoed the pain within,

hurling over thousand shades of unease

the nightmares had returned, sleepless nights filling his veins with guilt and dread

shapeless moments quickly got burnt, fomented creation of hell inside his head

insanity knocked on the doors, vile tongues as if shattered glass floating in his bloodstream, payback was signed by demon himself

chunks of flesh scattered around the heaven floors, all rotten souls preserved soundless scream and lost their ways in classic death fermentation before the twelve

he fell to the floor, limbs twisted and bent, angels and demons both calling his name, what he had done, left a mark, an edge cutting knife under the skull

tracing old war, when everything was never meant, days of glory, like a dying flame, barely lighted up his lifeless hull

redemption, the angels sang,

cleaned your wounds, mended the broken bones

shouted out the holy light,

confused, he tried not to hear

devoured by the sins —

a luscious delight of the impending doom

damnation, the demons sang,

crawled across my ground, unleashed my hellish moans

soared high in the hollow night

where benevolence was left abused,

“now, clench  your fear

dig deep into your wounded skin

strain your eyes, peer into the gloom”

the night drifted into a finale

yet the nightmares were reluctant to quit

cemented into his subconscious, ruthless killers of faith

body squirming, muscles in spasms

*another day arisen, foul sinner*

find your hope

or the endless turmoil of torments shall never end

something was turning around in his ever-fleeting reality,

a bottomless pit with its troubled wit

which smothered him senseless

so brilliantly obnoxious, a persephonic wraith

in symphonic bastardisation of his scriptural orgasms

taunting the angelic brigadier into existence in a dewlit morning like a pompous winning loser

walking the notochord of corporeal slob —

the lone(ly) sheep-clothed wolf barely felt content.

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Anarosewood

&

Carpe Noctem

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July, 2019

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