Blind and useless, trussed up like a pig.
The sack upon my head scratches, burns and irritates tired flesh.
I shall savour these sensations in time, before I take my final steps.
How did I get here? Many a reason, one being beauty.
Superficial as it is, beauty is a tragic thing. I pay a heavy price for it.
Wisdom robbed of validity while empty notions granted gravity.
The less I give, the more they want. Yet when provided with insight and depth? A lukewarm fancy dismissed.
Demands for prescribed meaningless sentiments came clamouring.
I was up to my neck in sin, the collective suicide of the masses who allowed their repression to take root and sour existence to the point of no return. Rounded upon by the self-harming, their ugly vices and moral regression, are put at my door.
Now I am here, in the black spot, while the snivelling cowards sit in their wretched little homes. Small, useless, and frightened.
My fate will be the source of instant sullied joy, another erosion of the fabric. But they will not see.
All that they sacrificed to me, The Great Distraction, while the abyss goes unnoticed.
Obey, lay down and sleep, solitude, carcass.
I couldn’t follow.
Rage saw to that.
Rage, beauty and honesty a potent combination.
So, I rose above the surface morals, fighting celebrated mediocrity with an alien fist. Until they’d had enough, before my noise became too much.
I sit here in the black spot, aching, bleeding.
They will come for me soon, I hear the comical clanking of busy bodies with intent.
But I kept my mind, my light and rage, while the beauty remains terrible within.
When they put me out front, for the vacant to judge without merit or care, I will burst open revealing all. Obliterating flesh and bone.
I shall make of them a blanket of ash.
And those few spared? They will start over before succumbing again. And I shall return to wipe clean the slate.
Until, one day, the slate ceases to exist.
And the vulgar stupidity has done for you all.
You surrendered everything.
And I’ll only watch, as you sit in the black spot.
Sack cloth heads.
Trussed up like pigs, waiting.