Author: Ellison Kirkland PM
-Poetry- A tragic exchange of poems between a vengeful seraph, cast from a corrupt Heaven, and his female champion, the Inamorata.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Tragedy - Chapters: 2 - Words: 902 - Published: 03-13-12 - id: 3004815
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Embark, for a voyage across the gorges
sundering your fondest memories with their rancor
shall snap the binding of this anathema,
your once insurmountable hold, and take you
to an unspoken world thriving on the true nature
of all things - death, decay, the fall and the rot -
where men do not as they are told, but
merely do unto each other. A cruel terrain
where the breakers take sons, and the winds their brothers
and where the static latency of this poisoned world
has long since drowned in the tide of my call.
Hurry, do not tarry! to this tired eden,
to the straits cavorting with the hidden crimes
of the youths of your fathers, when,
at the placid banks trembling with cowardice,
they sought to slake their thirst in dying for love:
an idiosyncracy of the weak and the common -
and its dead you shall shroud but in unrequited disdain.
Listen! and I shall call for you in the oncoming hour.
Now, forever! Strike, strike!
But who is there to hear the cries?
My tongue curls into the ears of the luminous
who must paint themselves from the clutch
of mankind's hostility to braving the terror of his chasms
with brushes carved from the bone of their fathers
and bristles plucked of their mother's hair
that only paint in the colours of life.
But these luminaries are closed, and my please
are shrouded in the shadows of now fading fires.
Oversight blinds the blighted, when man embraces his cretins,
and sacrifices the messengers on these turning tables.
But not you. Yield yourself to it now,
and you will see where before there were but nebulous lies
there are His shackles that have chafed you raw.
He takes your body, but stir to this turmoil,
this, my call, my standard, my decree
and it shall fuel your mind.
Now, forever! This machine we set in motion cannot be stopped!
Do not fear the agitated rattling of these chains, for
what is this but a great wonderment, a soused fantasia?
What is the nomenclature of a mere idea?
This is no tactile thing of which I conjecture
and none but you can penetrate the Unknown of my plea.
Make for this darkness with virgin blades,
thirsting for the Forbearer who cursed you with emotion
as in deafness your cowardly fathers thirsted for swift ends,
and you shall see, in order to blind the others.
Hear hear! Who shall hear? Who shall hear me
as I open to the call of this grand duality?
The greatest secession, where I am ripped into one and all?
Who shall see the yielding of this terrible pressure
to this great gravitas when my mind is drenched
in the deluge of this plural? What will remain
of these chains, when I succumb to this tragedy
this primordial desire? And will you bear it,
or too be drowned in the banks where your fathers,
now in their undoing, regret their thirst?