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| Oh, the long lost forgiveness,
the lifting of the oblivion-veil
and his abeyance, his brilliance
that binds and blinds.
Oh, the shattered shadows,
clumsy essences, bones that rattle
in the distant prossimity,
- an air for flutes, hovering like mist
on the ivory gates of dream.
Oh, blackned soil, eyes burnt by
the fiery words written in fire.
Oh, mother tongue of the silk-kin,
- sharp noise and sharper silence.
Oh, frail wings of leaves, Autumn,
season of things that bend under their
own weight. Oh - subtle difference
between lightness sublime, and cavity.
I summon you, Nemesis, with morbid words
and bruised lips. For I mistook the chances,
and pretended to forgot about the tiranny
of time and self.
A master I am, in the fine art of lying,
a master, in the ways of cruelty.
The arts of decadence and madness,
mastered to the point of virtuosity.
I questioned the titans, and the titans
answered - for pride is the thrice damned
language of hell. Stars washed upon the
shimmering shores of though, and
no wish was left to lift.
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