Monster-Slayer

If you are not born free then you are born dead. All my life I have searched for the light of freedom. And all I have found is death. I killed the leopard when I was six, its coat shone treacherously, with lacquered Lust that corrupted America's dingy hands and ill-hearts But it leaves a faded footprint, lingering from the fallen cities, and emphatic dust. Then weeping lion, with golden mane revealed its nature, through its game of Prideful things; deploring stings of ancient hornet brings, broken knowledge hums and sings and the beast fell hardest on shaky frame. I do not know how a good man decides when to defeat the inner light that resides inside, as in the Wolf who feared none except the dawn of passing sun which kept at bay her evil, nightly run. And all I looked of ghastly skies as deep and dark as death's pale eyes the land it fell mirrored tundra-hell a vast expanse of godless terrain that bridged the great, divining dell And at the posts of gated slept the Three-Headed Cerberus awoke in feral hunger, his bejeweled eyes gleamed in honor of Lucifer's precious metalry deemed the war with God he intervened. But my taste for death only grew with the wraiths and sinners I casually slew from the river Arno the waters I drew They leapt in fire, danced in mud, and I, the real monster, always won, always knew what I would become. Next I remember the cold night air and how I could have possibly been there, The stars sang lonely songs of choice, their winter dreams for all to bare icy passion doomed and frigid winds I feel rejoice. Upon the purging terraces be, at night the stony gargoyles flee; once the dusk disintegrates the winged creatures stalk the paths and flog the human shells into immortal shape. I hunt the dead, decaying lands, tabescent, grim, and bleak, I walk the rugged underbrush where once the free-willed weak became my prey, and lost their chance to speak. Consider: the blowing grains of dirt and sand, the hulking, turbulent tumulose on which I stand the dunes of store, sandstorm of pre-determined course, Yet, when the lives of gritty rock possessed choose their latent, fated force. I think does Love derive its potent will on the shoe-laced puppets of mortal clay? If their hearts remain unstill, then why this legerdemain? And to what end this feverish, motley game. The Heavens spark the only, mysterious flame; and I continue to the Omniscient one who has no name.