Poem: Wyrd’s End

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A red slash across the sky,
A crimson flash of blood-burst veins,

Cycling, the moon, restless with strange power,
Pours itself down the throat of my mind,
All but gagging from Mania’s fever wine

What will this night bring?
Haunted by memories of disease,
And diseased memories,
Of howling arctic wastes,
Beleaguered by snowy breaths of wind;
Our haunted footsteps across the tundra

Coming from a cavern of jewels,
I withdraw to a black, oily lake,
The sable entrance of nightmares,
That nursery of monsters,
All bat-wing black,
And wizened with thought,
Until your brain bears no more inscription,
Rotting with the rest of us in the mud

Here I crawled along twilit holloways,
Murderous passages of vague crepuscule,
Mysteries raping my screaming mind,
Fevered by lunar tides – to feel the rain
Pelt against my brain,
And the stonewalls it wears away

Yes, I am the whiskey on the branches,
The bladderwrack on the rocks,
The deliverer of evil,
And mystic, mentalized shocks

I seek vengeance,
Through imagination’s fulfilment,
The weary curse of bottomless oceans,
I sleep, unwearied, on tireless feet,
Following dreams down wayward streets,

But I must give something back,
Relinquish all hold on tangible things,
Yield my nerves to beheaded logic,
As it lies bleeding,
In an executioner’s soft palms

Their fulfilment shall see,
The fruition of Wyrd’s End,
Wine bottles breaking in harvest
As I scarper round the bend

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