Father Rot by Alex Gross To the osseous fingers of cold Father grim But mere husks of ill-purpose fill caskets to brims In Brimstone - Here be planted in igneous and writhen The eldest brinks of existence harbour an infertile evolution Our Parallels, intrinsic dissolutions loom Our stargazing veins watch the mind fade to doom Sullen pathways to death cycle in the chasms of our chests Bittersweet stares transfixed upon the aura of distress It is a tumultuous oracle, inbred if pain and bliss to inheret realization that without hell, heaven cannot exist. We stand alone, atoms singular in their sympathy Sordid vessels of emotion adrift beyond once joyous shores And into the oceans, sinking and aresting our lungs The heart stays awake just to contort and seethe Until the second we run out of reasons to breathe My ribcage, defective No mere bones can seal this pain There is no sorrow or hate Just acceptance to gain Oh, infinity, guide me Of hope I am bereft Doth the stars dance tonight To the churn of my death To the skeletal eyes of the dark reapers whim We are but feeble impulses of meat, bone, and skin In soil - Belay the heartwork that thyself had wrought And I pray that some God will allow me to rot
Posted on: Tue, 07 Oct 2014 00:39:04 +0000
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