I can feel it winding in from the outside. That cold stream, curdling with hell’s feces en route to pollute me in my denial. Moses on his soap box from God, come to cast me as a curse- Pharoah is to be made an example of, but he is to still be pitied for it is not entirely his fault. He is not the mechanism of his destruction.
In brightest day and darkest night, I feign evil must needs take flight, but woe the dawn of winter’s summer light, when damnable Plague gapes merciless jaws in unyielding bite!
I am not the hero… I just wear his cape. Make no mistake, no mistake has been made, it’s a tin raid on the roadway to give your heart back to you before you realize who took it. To steer you back to life in the woods, before yellow brick roads become your undoing. The only redemption in daring adventure is to the listener who camps ‘neath the firelight of misguided ambition… immunity to ammunition assertively ascertained by freedom to disregard fairytales as laughable children’s institution.
So you see, though I be yet healing, I am also their pollution.
An unending loop of unimpressive death. Through lips sealed like the societal tomb they bury themselves in, I suffer strangulation even as I choke. Or through yawning maw, and jaguar claws with an artful dodge I steer them towards the mirror. Not to behold themselves, but to see through it… to catch the faint glimpse of the One Life the rest of us are reflecting multitudinously.
That cold, lifeless stream passes me by… eagerly racing ’round mountain’s bend to engrave its sepulchral signature on my cenotaph… proof that this life is the final escape from the truth which is inescapable.
In a world obsessed with a Goodness void of God, I am the plague… or perhaps such loftiness of observation is undue for one of my position.
I am Plague.
I am alone.
This is the way it must be.