Profound excuses, shall-not's and thorns
Dredging my steps in thickest murk
Ashes, nothing but ashes of fear

The unconquerable is a transition -
A reverberating chapter of unwritten text
That which is left when a space becomes hollow,
Leaving only a thin layer of form in the wake of change

Can one really endeavour
To drink with parched lips
From the cup of Death
As eagerly as from the cup of Life?

By their fruit shall you know them
Or otherwise by the vermicular rot which grows on it
What may grow on the muck of a corpse is a terrible sight indeed!

You shadow of slime
Necessary and recursive
Glistening in dawn's murk, almost invisible
The larvae of reckoning.
Aphotic bodies, rearing their heads to obscure resonances
Past deeds flickering, long removed from sight
Mouldy remains writhing in memory's mire
Behold their rotted spines, entombed in heavy slabs...
Bury them and be silent!

I can see them gesturing
Two fingers dipped in blood, in doom anointed
Reaching out to make the transition between the living, and...

Become the worm which gives birth to itself
Through 'the word made flesh'

Destiny is not inevitability
Though they pull at each other's garbs
And yearn to be perceived as a single rider on a pale, starved horse
Almost a part of the very landscape from which he emerges, screaming..

Before misery was, I was
Where suffering thrives, I am
I, pestilence, leer in shadows
Piercing every beating heart -
Time's true agent, the image of the end

A cruel amalgamation of fear, uncertainty
Through 'the word made flesh'

"Out -out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, 'Man,'
And its hero the Conqueror Worm."

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