What sanctuary is there in indulging the whims of falling stars?
The metallic rupture of matter overnight where she wished, oh wished upon
Tasteless copulation for history to be reborn under ultraviolet illumination,
But her words were capricious against the name of the wind, unfaithful and erratic,
And loyalty regards only the constant sutures of manifestation and heart
To sustain the variables of emotions collapsed into archaic strains,
She asked for more than the irregular, around the world with only hot air,
Offering nothing but false disciples, irresolution, and melodramatic verse
That tore down mountains with self-righteous rigor mortis, basking with glee,
A shrouded nature, built by decay, asking, “can you hear me today?”
Through myopic romances and fatal display, nearer death than striving embrace,
She wanted all the cosmos without Cosmicism, everything hers without the fear,
Yet, when lies were more romance than truth, what reality did not drown in despair?
Offering nothing but false disciples, irresolution, and melodramatic verse,
What repentance did she perceive? The burning atmosphere received
From perspective nuances, rumoured and dishevelled, trapped and beautiful,
Offer yourself naked to the eyes of gods; they can see your soul before atonement,
The forthcoming devotion of eldritch days to come, promises forgiven
And lovers restored before the fallen, de mortuis nil nisi bonum*,
Shed no tears for false prophesy and love, deconstructed monsters,
Eram quod es, eris quod sum,** the abyss stares back into each soul.
* Of the dead, nothing unless good.
** I was what you are, you will be what I am.
Poem © Phen Weston 2015