Baphomet
Hardly matters what name went by or what name called out when it becomes the Abaddon, the beginning into end and end become beginning of what terror or succor wholly dependent on which eye is looked through.
The creator in it's judgment may have a place for all in a divine wasteland set as a paradise for diseased minds though sinner and saint alike call home by different name.
Is it beautiful because that's what was always said about it? Is it horrible because that's what was told? One would prefer to be as unsightly as imaginable; from it's own view the hand me downs of desirable things leave one quite unsatisfied and ill. Can't, won't stand in those shadows, foul air sets within them, stale skin and smoke flesh. It seems like the afterlife since it's so hard to find anything that can really die that hadn't a long time ago.
Push the fog back across the face, draw the head up and make another puppet show. Struggling fiercely against ghosts that pulls on the strings in a circular tug of war to see which is the maker of response, of thought, of action; ultimately to see how long ago control was lost or if it was ever even there.
What heart bleeds into one's head, what hand draws the chalk outline around one, to write one off as written.
Words can echo far past the skin that made them, the stain left from one to another. What gets pushed down the throat and into the head, smack it against the wall and see if it sticks.
How many scapegoats take the blame for dishonor, total the sacrificial lambs in the collection of the self respect peeled away layer by layer like a foul onion until the ugly heart lays out exposed.
The hardened mind to have to admit culpability, viscera made of iron to spill out and surround. The eventual baptism in the collection of sins accumulated.
Can always flee away from those wailing orphans, shrug off the screaming monstrosities into the recesses, hope to sink down deep enough to drown, outrace the noise. Seek out the distractions from self, seek out salvation in a shiny tin kingdom, become master and slave in a plastic neverland. Holding hands with the ones that puke their diseases into each other, milking infection to drain out the nephesh left holding hands as empty and as unreal as the fears fled from.
The creator in it's judgment may have a place for all in a divine wasteland set as a paradise for diseased minds though sinner and saint alike call home by different name.
Is it beautiful because that's what was always said about it? Is it horrible because that's what was told? One would prefer to be as unsightly as imaginable; from it's own view the hand me downs of desirable things leave one quite unsatisfied and ill. Can't, won't stand in those shadows, foul air sets within them, stale skin and smoke flesh. It seems like the afterlife since it's so hard to find anything that can really die that hadn't a long time ago.
Push the fog back across the face, draw the head up and make another puppet show. Struggling fiercely against ghosts that pulls on the strings in a circular tug of war to see which is the maker of response, of thought, of action; ultimately to see how long ago control was lost or if it was ever even there.
What heart bleeds into one's head, what hand draws the chalk outline around one, to write one off as written.
Words can echo far past the skin that made them, the stain left from one to another. What gets pushed down the throat and into the head, smack it against the wall and see if it sticks.
How many scapegoats take the blame for dishonor, total the sacrificial lambs in the collection of the self respect peeled away layer by layer like a foul onion until the ugly heart lays out exposed.
The hardened mind to have to admit culpability, viscera made of iron to spill out and surround. The eventual baptism in the collection of sins accumulated.
Can always flee away from those wailing orphans, shrug off the screaming monstrosities into the recesses, hope to sink down deep enough to drown, outrace the noise. Seek out the distractions from self, seek out salvation in a shiny tin kingdom, become master and slave in a plastic neverland. Holding hands with the ones that puke their diseases into each other, milking infection to drain out the nephesh left holding hands as empty and as unreal as the fears fled from.