Is it conscious of me, or of i it
That which has heathen roots, which skies negate.
The blasphemous revenants, on eve the day of Tyr
Jerked motion of the unearthed worm beneath the muddied fingertips
Still writhes for hope and breath though thoughts of mine lie FAR beneath...
Into hallowed grounds they dig, these hands (not mine)
For they are cut and bruised and begging the earth of sustenance
But lo, attached they ARE to me and moving of their own accord
As eyes do glance to see who sees me in this pallid state.
CURSED WRETCH!!! the one in window, staring to my occupation!
With disgust and fear for she must know that i am next!
As the sound of leaves comes to me, then i wait for fear of waiting.
For i know no one is with me (...for i know no one)
Digging with my gangly fingers into lightly moistened soil:
Now without me you must will to will without me now
By the sight of coming clouds, rigid in complexion,
I see more of them approach my roost, approach them must i not
For they'll see me four heads higher than they might do in reflection.
But i sit And Pry to Hear Of Many Elder Things:
Right as rain these Other things Seem to Establish Such a Tempt to never Heed to the Imperial words Said unto Those unwilling to Lose their Eyes in Curse And Terrible Silent acts Created
by the Lesser beings, Answering to the one Whose Ashen likeness Severs
all thought of Here and now, but Only inspires Fear and Fright: By Emulating
the undoings And Tempting the Honorous into Every futile act, Rigid
and Hardened until All thought Is erased and Reason is done Out with.
From they, now, the Plague will Linger And Great
men will be Undone, and in the End
the Disciples of thought will Marvel
at the likeness of Every man who's Numbness
is fed by comfort.
***
Now with mud and Fox-tails dried
In summer sun do mix the entrails
of the barbs and hair for
What will be the final feast
Until all have fallen:
Drink for drink
Blood for blood
Our minds and souls will rot and blacken
Proving will to will without....
Death, come welcome friend, for my (our) eyes have seen and the blood of me (we) is on my (our) hands.
And my (our) tongue, the thrashing limb, is violent voiced in waking (every tormented hour).
And my (our) thought dragged to dust in the viscera of men.
For it is I (We) who shall bring the Cold!
Now without me you must will to will without me now,
By the sight of coming clouds rigid in Complexion
I see more of them approach my roost, (approach them must I not)
for they'll see me fourheads higher than they might do in reflection
But i sit And Pry to Hear Of Many Elder Things
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