The Death of a Thousand Cuts

Ken of darkness, forged in flame-
Bred of demons, wracked by shame,
Purged in crimson blood, desire...
Led with malice, gorged in fire.

Crimson ribbons, wreathed in light,
Dancing flickers, fraught with spite,
Silence rent, in unvoiced screams.
Shadows lost in torch-lit dreams.

Rank, in bloodless Godhood, flayed,
Crest, in crimson sheets, are laid,
Swathed in robes of blood-slick stain,
Stillness echoes through my pain.

Miasmic vision yields to lust,
Describing symmetries like dust-
Ribbons float, adrift in space.
Fading in the fears I face.

So far away, afar afield,
Far beyond the bodies' yield-
Flight from pains I cannot feel,
As abstract agonies anneal.

Uncounted times, a game with death,
Thoughtless distant, pain-drawn breath.
Countless years, and light-years past,
Wagers, never lost, are cast.

Homewards journey, home so near-
Sky familiar, stars so dear.
Constellations, mind-made; real,
Matters not for how I feel.

Home. Oh God, I'm home again-
A blade, of silver, lances pain.
A hundred years of repetition,
Sword strike, paper wound; Blood Glisten.

Agony, and without dreaming,
In a web of hurt, I'm screaming.
Crimson ribbon, sword-tip fleeing-
Back again to wound: past feeling...

Belkrost Anakar