New life is rooted from the sanguine seeds sown in my destruction
And death inhabits the sacred temples of my creation.
This duality that sits upon the throne of my nature
Is both the curse and the cure,
But in recent millennia
I am perturbed by the growing force
That steers my hands towards the course of absolution;
To absolve my being and enter a true and final death.
Tell me not to raise the final hand to close the crimson cloaked curtain.
Tell me not to raise one final blanket of violent silent breath.
Tell me not that all my light has perished into the bow of this sinking ship.
Tell me not that I am too far gone with the wind.
For there are labyrinths of wounded tombs
That incarcerate my womb
Speared by the Minotaur
Who holds my organs to ransom;
Castrating my lungs
And muting my sonic mutated tones from ascension;
Foot peddling with my emotions.
And yet there you stand… idle