Soliloquy #47

Grandiose and docile this beast within,
A serpent that may try to bite
Into a foot plated with cold iron,
And try pierce and penetrate until deadly fatigue
And then laid into a twilight sepulcher
Where the Sun and Moon may not
Exist and where the vile tooth
May lay until found by legend
And an ungodly complexion,
Hypnotic, yet quivering with rage
For the quest of the fleshed foot
Of the world’s bigot.

Might I never fly like the forever
Gliding creature of the night, my
Prophetic soul may wearily rest in
A bed of dark roses that may prick
My sides and may slowly pour
My blood to stain blank parchment
Embedded with a purity to be rooted
With a most wicked weed, able, at
All times, to entangle and estrange
The wings that lay on all backs
Of mortals with nightly visions
To fly like the forever gliding
Creature of the night.

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