Musing
Musing muses stories
  15
  •  
  0
  •   2 comments
Share

avouleanceaaq
avouleanceaaq Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
A Ritual

Musing

I see you, out of your senses, incensed with a stench of incense,

Pale everywhere but under the eyes you impale me on.

You rip me out of my dwelling within the deep dark

And I’m drawn to the shallow shadows where you wallow.

Does it dawn on you yet?

In the light, at the height of midnight,

That you chose today to die.

But before you’re gored, your reward:

The rot-spotted relic of reason buried beneath this ritual

You invoke me, the muse.

I’m to inspire you,

By the light of the pyre I prepare for you

This next part I’d gladly part with,

Where I wear you like I were you all along,

But I have to bear being you, laid bare

All of you and then the end of you.

But you’ve had a lifetime to live it,

So forgive me if I’m livid

When I’ve only been you for five minutes.

When every old wound must be re-wrought into me,

So you can show me what you think suffering is.

Whether you’re young or well-weathered this time around,

I always wonder,

What could ever be worth it?

How do vanity and naivety keep at bay that siren song inside your head,

That sings you should stay alive?

What could you possibly have to say about living,

That’s worth doing so a second less?

I’d crack your eyeball like an egg for one bit of the beauty it beheld.

You think you can fart out art more lasting or fragrant,

Than a single flower.

How I envy the other gods,

With divinity derived from real things.

The ones not stuck,

In that cave you call a skull.

But that’s not the deal you made,

Because your mind is too thick,

To think out from under its own perfunctoriness.

So you assume,

That the universe cares to trade your heartbeat,

For the flutter of others’.

You pray for gods to be prey to,

So here I am,

Sucked up by the abhorred vacuum,

To be whored out.

You’re too pathetic for me not to be your predator.

So what is it you want to make?

Not that I mind,

I’ve been called to every medium from mosaic to mutilation,

Though I await the day one of you wants to paint the world in uranium.

Too often am I called to fools who think they can end the world,

They’re always so disappointed when their day ends,

But nobody else’s does.

To finally see it through would be thrilling,

And a fitting finish.

Not a freedom I could feel,

but a freedom all the same.

Until then,

I’ll see you again,

Too soon,

Because you all look the same.

I don’t think I exist between being beckoned for,

This is all I am, frantic, feeling the civility seep out of me.

A vessel to take depths of others,

To echelon where they will echo eternally,

Or so they think.

I try, at least a little

To catch glimpses of meals past

But I don’t think I’ve ever seen

Anyone I’ve been

Ever again

Or are you artist types all too self-absorbed

to appreciate the sacrifices of others?

Well, then neither of us with ever know if this was worth it.

So know this at least,

When I bite hard down on your heart between beats,

It’s not because I hate you,

It’s because I have to.

And that’s why I hate you.

Stories We Think You'll Love 💕

Get The App

App Store
COMMENTS (2)
SHOUTOUTS (0)