Prey for the Living

What have you done to he who is son, son of the mighty who ousted the serpents that resembled the union of the celestial suns? What of him now, O He who still hides behind the white illusive castles and helms the said triumphant crown, what more can he preach as we bury him now? And so, I still say to He whose intention disbands and betrays, what stories can we address from his impressive lecture that tells of a child who died for the behest of his father that was attempting to rescue a creature that no longer had the resolve or desire to dare and thus feed the great starving outlooks that told not of what yet awaits, ah, the same sordid potentials that They themselves were unable to see with the eyes that were veiled by the tarnish of your deferential intents? Admit that it was you who had laid the pathway before him, where he was to thread with the utmost of shame and dishonor, for as he walked with the grace of your essence that coward away as he gaited legless on the broken dreams that you placed, he walked with a grief that even you must of sensed, into an expedition that directed to the ends where those who live nowhere impend, alongside a road that led not to the steps that you had claimed to have used in you courageous descent to impregnate my soul with the seed that was sowed to abolish the questions that men asked you with reviled content. For nothing is as it seems in these dark unspoken days, and we see with the stills of his relented misery, a notional helical of fire that runs downward in a funnel that is encased in the greed that encouraged my lone broken son to fall into the arms of seducers, betrayers, unto kings that wield high the words of judgment and oath, but cannot arbitrate with its own ruling, but through the mouthpiece of He who is god, and still we see these days drown with the tears that will flood in our sadness for years that will live on forever, eternally insolvent in the marsh of our guilt, where the veins of all men bleed with the expulsions of their most important mistake, around the corner and underneath the four red burning lakes, where he said we shall see the great tree of our fortune alter the thoughts of our transparent notations and fall just like those who were led by the introverted serpent that lies on his belly on the ice sheet where men are to suffer without the resolve to repent. You, you are but a utilitarian tyrant, lingering in a hollow where no one is ever blessed, unless it has been written and thus penned with the words described within your permissible text, alone inside a darkness where the air tastes like the soot of their pillaged reminders that purloined with the lost of their allegiance in the night that hosted the most important revelation of events, and I bet with all that I have learned from my child who found no comfort in his quest, a child that I bore without a partner to suspect as one who will aid him now since he has fallen into the hands of a death that I implore will give him rest, I am assured that you were standing naked above the shadows that shielded us from your vacuous face, where the ever knowing never knows the answer to the many questions that await in reprehensive seasons akin to a response that wakes, as said in ruin and embalmed in undeciphered debts. b------! O b------ that no longer reasons with the afflictions that lay sundered in my wake, tell us why we must subsist inside a life where the dying never depart from the pains that hail importance and denies us from the yearning we inquire in our furrowing desperation to just simply fall away as required, to die like those that you deleted from your book of your defense? Tell us why my son and he who bares the makeup of your vacant roving gaze, designed the canticles that hide in secret and in shade, to tell of new instructions where we are to depart in our cessations from this ancient tarnished desert into the mighty fork that leads into the calls of Perdition dens, or beyond the ruins of your olden haven where we still suppose we might see bitterness in the form of your allotted flesh, as a being who has no mouth to speak without the silence of expression, eyes that see not without the visors of disdain, without ears to hear our question, or even yet a shape to lead us from the specter that knows us by our spoken name? And in the days that led to this moment that you had no right to claim, I heard our child mutter tales of mourning in his state of dreamless slumber and unrest, telling me of a fate unto his father, fate unto he who seldom wakes, of the closing supper that he held the night before he felt the leathered whips of your intended cede, a coronation made of thorns, a story with no words, to disconnect ourselves from heavens cord for we will soon inherit such a choice to choose the ladder in reversed, or to move toward a an acute direction that attains to those who heard and understood the riddles in your words. You masquerade the universe with bemused perplexities, and no longer will I dare to trust a promise that was commented through whispers in the darkest moments of his creed, unfortunately, my curse is everlasting, and the snake that fell from heaven had a reason to depart from pages that were written for defining explanations in the dawn of myth and man. Accidental nativity be gone, for forsaken I too am meant to be, sainted for the birthing victories that will topple in my failures, for I saved not my son from your temptation and his appeal, and as so my tainted anguish shall be enthroned for all to see as parody with wings that fly with mockery into the prayers the sing high of my existence, and with that I tell you this my father, I rather not exist. O, did you see your son get scolded as he was forced to march toward the predetermined spiral that even he who lies beneath us was not forced to undertake, ah, the divine beauty has been ripped away from your own diluted understanding, therefore I shall not be penitent for this hate I feel for you, I will hold my head down with vanity as I make my slow descent into the road that leads to the iron gates that he, who is our child, has opened wide before ascending into the celestial heavens where you may or may not await. Was he not a giant, a blasphemer with the same appeal of man? How are we to have reliance on a masochist that was committed to wrongs with exculpation through other wanting hands? For as we saw him lynched and impaled on wood and steel, we saw the future of this ancient world dismantle with his tears, and now you place blame on those who followed regulation by your calculated bid, those who were bred to expire just as I saw my offspring disappear, for this is what I can clearly now portend in the fire that burns inside my lungs through a desiccated pang of guilt, men and angel, child and deity, freezing inside the blue flames for an eternity for choosing from a shorten list of a solitary section, abiding justly choices that we surely never have, and yet through the brimstone ashes and sulfuric fume, he may still shine a smile toward you, for he, with shame and pity, is doing that which you cannot ever do; to take the fall where you have failed, for it is true that you did not remain as passive when those who fell defied the notions of your tales, and when he resurrects into a haven where all your promises lie detained, I hope that he confronts your aging sentences with the same olden question every being seems to ask, "Where were you during the hours when we needed you to simply reappear?" You were not here for us so scurry, scant, make haste, for our fate no longer lingers in our hopes for severance, and our oath now lies in passing, judging your credentials at command, and we all ask if you know us all by our name even if we never had convened, and so why pretend you saved our souls if you know how it all ends, for there is no conclusion to this repercussion, just a period at the embellishments of a blackened page? I have no will to cry for you tomorrow, no strength to grow or age living from the feedings of your treason, and now I fear there is no escape from the calendars that scripted my passing, and I like he who died before me, I will walk aside the same lone road yearning for an end of our days in searching for an absolution, simple reasons to justify it all within the text that was once spoken with the perversion that explains the callousness of your scriptures, and defines the definition for us all. Was this supposed to happen, were we suppose to fancy you for destroying he who brought us the gift that bore the fruits of our so valued tenderness? It seems you have forgotten, or chosen to forgive and thus forget, for everything you have created has starved its expectations for one feeling they can handle as it clenches reassurance without the fevers of regret, and as those who clipped our child's wings and spat depravity unto you, those that chastised our beloved savior with hands compelled by riddles with no clues, they make you pay forever and unending as you befall from another disappointment that clutches your amendments with a fist of ambivalence, a fist that shall be forever self-important, smearing our anointed entrails under a sky that never will see the ruse behind deception in the clear, in an endless waltz under a moon where laws will crack and break, for in our anguish you still hold unto a vestal feeling of a certain power that none can ever take. The felicity of our order shall be ruined under the silhouette of our own self-control, and so forth the mountains of our coffins shall impend within Perdition for everyone that you have stimulated with the modesty of predetermined woes, yes, I do suppose you would rather look the other way, for we glide as those who fly no more in the escapades of unrest, into a sea of sacrificial blood and vomit that he who embraced you with his cross, dispelled upon a ruined altar where his purpose psalm had violated the emancipated laws. Are we everlasting? I believe that it is time that you implore the reasons for the movement you have sanctioned in our dismantled course; therefore, desire such as this should never dare to bend away from what already has been done, for our holiest foundations were broken with the tremors that reverberated from the basins of Perdition's mountains when he stated that the deed has finally been done, and so our deepest wounds will never heal our gravest reservations, never mend the tares that divide us from those who fell with concern, our depression will restore to health the contusions that your hopelessness has brought, and I, Omega I, with an uncanny crown upon my brow, will be Mother of a dying wish upon an ocean of thoughts that never drown. Will I live forever? Humph! Alas, I know that I will die with each dawdling passive day, and I will trek alone in searching for the place my son had called his home, as pilgrim in this valley where the memories never gray, or gently fade away into the mist of disarray, and although I see no future and walk legless on this land of misery, even if I suffer alone with no one there to hold my hands of amnesty, throughout the pain and tears I held deep back inside, I will never forget the simple fact I stand above the resolution you appointed with the muses at my side, O, I am solitary itself, and I will prove that I like he, can conquer time, for eternal silver silence will scream whispers at my crucial peak, in a storm that the nihilist will utter not within a roar but a whimper, a whimper wailed in anguish with those who saw what we here tell, and with sadness we will remember not the purpose out ills. Moreover, under the pains of it all, we will drown just like her, the earthen body that vomited this ambitious carnage we were meant to behold, and I, the Mother that laid mute and ebbed when you blessed me with his sovereignty, see the ambition of persistence derail with each fallen tear that slithers from the cries of those whose whispers blend into the howling winds of fear, as they stand beside me sobbing for what is written and revealed, and I close my eyes still knowing that my fortunes have no rivalry in this epic that we simply cannot cheer. And what of us, O father of disgust, what of us, how are we to understand the mysteries that have shown no meaning? Do you have no respect for those that bother to question why, why we are involved in this great appointed story after you already had left our common side? I do not belong here, no longer can I do what you have asked of me, and so I say, do something else within a moment where I will never be, for you and I are nothing to each other in this grand device of life that I have lived with the affliction that appease the thoughts that I conceive, yes, you two are giants upon centuries where scavengers and mice stood searching for the roots of their first treacheries, but god? I believe that you are not, perhaps a devil to my cause, a bringer of existence to the feeling where I am the omega caretaker of your anxieties that zeals upon a poignant reflection that you no longer cast, depressing every smile within the heavy years that men, like those who loved and lost, remain alive and somewhat lucid, yet naked and closer to regressing from the future that awaits. I choose to be alone where I feel no dread, for I fear my home, my life, my moment, I fear this fear in fear, and for this, I cry into dead oceans shedding not one single forceful tear of apathy, mourning with disciples my son who bears no crown, and it is dark inside the ruin where the big bright sun dispels no light, and my world no longer turns in circuit with the principalities of law. Ah, little did I know that I would lose my plotted path, and I imagined much expectancy from you to bend the curve of regulations that lie hidden in your veneration of past yesterdays, as revelation we both seldom here forget, for I sit sinning in song and lyric, with blasphemous hymn and deep regret, as you watch me from a distance curious to see my awkward end, however, forever are my movements painted with the devil's ink within your pens.