Blood Washing Blood
This dream has evinced my wan tiles into a succubus bridge of noxious temptations. Right before attaining this vision, I had been keen enough to slip out of its skin’s reach. Since my service to creation has been weighing me down, my looming thorns were gradually leading me to a riddling doom.
Chiseled into a sailcloth’s seam, bound and unraveled by a marauder’s dream. My shore is fulfilled by a neighborhood of emotional mud. Morose is the anarchy of the sand, whose lawlessness is but a journaled distress.
I have been conversant with a neophyte, one whose temple has had the trail of a crib. He knows not of the marks of a vassal, although his maiden lips are well-versed with the rhythm of a silver-coated damsel.
He appointed me a governess to his unlettered hallways, to his awash ballroom plagued by incompetency. But what was I if not an archived speck of historic autonomy in the land of groundless sovereignty?
For I am begotten by a dispossessed dominion, and my hands bear memories of the remnants of a once despotic trident. I lean upon a moonless night, and he secures the cloaked casement before my sight. I suppose he considers me a bridal fountain to his alluvium, and his arms beheld a sacred rite.
When I was brought forth, my mother told me that I must have caroled with the angels before stripping myself from the darkness of her walled womb. The ocean waves were true natives to this earth for their turbulent surface bestrode the wind and had their chimes rung across my annunciation room.
My voice, under violent skies, has been recounted as deadened as a September sea. But my calves are enwrapped with silk, a susceptible fabric to treachery. Nature witnesses the silence of a chary antelope in the countenance of defrosting, but nature more so recognizes the illness of a mute imputation.
Even the wind is breezed through a lullaby, it is the mortal essence that is lacking and deafened. And as even the subastral elements belong to a vicious complexion, their assistance abrades not my temptress blood.
His crown often escapes his bristled head, the goldsmith has forged those sapphires in consideration of a vernal king. That is the nemesis of his past youth: A waste of resin and sentry. And all he offers me is a cask to rinse his grotesque hands, and what seems to once be a square white cloth now represents a field of butchery.
I have been casted away from the land of ataraxy, I am now a summoner of a lamb dawn. My wings are that of an excluded archangel, lethal and contrite. And now that I have no throne to cart above my tail, or a sun whose light will now only shine to no avail, where must my immense potency lie? Now that I am encumbered by the weight of my blue-blooded veins, how do I pause their visibility?
I can only speak of my anguish as an apology to my thralldom, and for that I am cursed with exigency. His imbrued sword penetrates because of ascendancy, and he possesses a craven treason. It must have been his disordered birth, for I heard of his squeaks, that they thundered upon the touch of his delivery. The sea must have fallen from its graceful petals and demanded a rewind in favor of his cries.
We are birthed from wallow distinctions, him and I. I crafted a sphere of protection; he coerced a current to destruction. And it was my very own touch of narration to my agony, yet it is his bladed weapons that lapse in loyalty.
His women are a well of literacy to his wounds, and a cemetery to the dismembered pieces of his archenemies. What makes that of the conceived daylight that is bound to no immortal ruins, once they touch those slit partitions?
Nine months have passed, and my very own vessel was to reincarnate into a purgatory. I resided beside the clocks of a ticking water, and I pushed the sin out of me. But the waves were floating kin to my habitat, a world where no boat has seen the solvation of its wood, a disciplined domain of civility to the sailors.
My systemic disquietude hurried for the nature of this creature, a shrieking tree to the soil that has banqueted its origins. I stretched for the cleaver and repressed that hollow thing. I was never meant to carry its state of penury, but I latched onto a spark of resemblance. It was not of existence, not for me.
My hands were dripping of bloody rubies that no passerby would attend to their jewelry. My eyes were windows of seeping streams, resting after sanguinary battles. Every pore was a fleeting conqueror with a passage of blood, and they all settled on the cradle marks of this bloodshed.
I am the inception of these gaping fluids, so no wakeful shore shalt be of service to my innocence. I am the vengeance of a generation’s slumber, and a fiend for polar creation. I am the blood within the blood, a continent that has birthed an empire. Yet beware the ashes of an assumption, and the carnage of the forgotten.
I was once infecund and nature was to reign over my redundant pedigree, but I am now a vilomah, and blood is my sole dynasty.
