The End Of All My Enemies

Brutal lyceum, unctuous are thy halls, where charlatans selfishly share the air with sullen song, Satyricon.

O Petronius, may the scarlet ribbons flow from your yawning wrists, pauciloquent and pallid, and with maroon clouds forming in the hot bath you sat in, a plaudit storm erupted on the other side of that wall.

 

The tempo interminably languid, and at times, de rigueur—bowed with fucked diffidence and florid felicity.

How nitid, and fitted, diluted, and resplendent; luciferous, like pines and mares, in winter foggy stares, behind the monolith that binds us.

With glean the dream did summon, a many face of mine on rusted swinging pikes, and I beheld the unholy beast that burdens.

 

And yet the field posses nothing more that natural chaos; austere the morning deer, and stern you lie in fear behind the fern where sheeple calm themselves from lions.

Futile to discern, anthropomorphic and forlorn, grey in sex and lupine jest, must the dust ask again and again?

The fear you ingest, ineffable at best, the way it lashes and besets…on all sides, with false pride, the golden age of youth: you know now,without a doubt…must say good bye.

 

 

Now swelter in my symmetry and try hard to think of me.

This day may very well be

the end of all my enemies.

∞