I stand naked and alone in the spiralling storms.
My feet find support on fallen stone.
How I would long to be a beacon in the husk of
This world, to rally the cause of man by example.
To rebuild the cloister upon firm
Ground and tend its shambling gardens.
To nurture the flames,
Buttress the walls and curate the
Spirit of man by all available means.
But I am weak.
I am flawed.
And now, in the smouldering remnants of this temple,
And the screeching laughter of the fools, I feel my animus transform,
And all the foulest of phenomena effervesce from my skin,
With the ease and inevitability that a would exudes blood.
A beacon in the husk of man indeed, but not a beacon of illumination.
I grasp at my phallus and paint my seed upon this ferrous world.
A fitting tribute to such finality.
The howling voices of previous augurs,
They scream out to none, for death is all that listens.
And in death's arid embrace I find ecstasy.
No jury lurks in the rafters of the
Sky to meter the penance for these crimes.
I am the sole arbiter.
The last of you.
Bittersweet ruminations paint my mind with colours of thirst.
I yearn for a fitting sentence,
Envisaged for former kin, to balance the scales and cap the wake.
I burn to see the totality of what was man,
Gathered as one and heaped high as grain.
Young upon old.
Frail and strong.
Piled high to the welkin.
In my mind I stand before this wall of flesh and howling duress.
In the anguish I bathe.
In the failure I revel.
The searing fireballs that dance before my
Closed eyes are now more than weatherbeaten reverie.
To me they call out their dire siren songs.
O, how I long to pluck each one,
Like ripened fruit from a bough, and place each upon a city of man.
I lust to fathom this unravelling, to rise above all,
To witness the grandest of scales,
And to perceive the subtlest minutia all as
One, like the fabled godheads of man's tales.
To breathe the suffering into my lungs, and,
As so many before, to become the end of all times.