Hercates

Am I a glitch in the system? An itch in the glistening listening cistern? A witch emblazoned in ritual fiction?  This nameless affliction, winning naysays with stickshift syllabled diction. I wish, I could speak as quickly and as eloquently as these written descriptions, to ponder how I may present upon a dot of coherence; instead my lobes are ruinously textured, tinctured, Broca’s area is on the verge of extinction, a mixture of tenses envemoned with unsolicited self-inflictions, I am conflicted, it is what it is and additionally, what it isn’t, a cyclical but critical maledictive ripple, biblical tickles and prophetically protective depictions, picturing infinite sets, stars and ascensions, diminutive and simultaneously bewitching, mosaics and mirrors stitched together, twinkling kisses, which cynical pinnacle would you have me preach from, a sentimental sermon in poetry for snaps, re: cognition. Holy moly, oh here we go, a tier of vanity dressed up like an unhindered Benvolio, belay that, spitting feathers and freeways up the Irwell, er well hell sir, a burning pyre, plumes racing towards effortless clouds at the helm of a thousand loose black pearls, close the gate of dean, mouthing words to the hateful obscene, painting the inside of my eyelids with whispers potently serene, re: semblance, I’m a narrow boat with nowhere to go, tied to the banks of emblems and semantic ropes, printing strings pulling every knot way, my three dimensional isotopes, the ayes have it, casting ash into fire with valedictorian hope, the drug of ambition seeds life under a horror of microscopes, infected spores spread in ohs and oars, mutating freedom to greed, seeking aurum as sacred and depleting its sheen, what’s a little drop in the ocean or a turn on the green, swathes and petticoats, crowns, staffs, sceptres, swish swish bish, enduring pendulums keeping score and recollections, how long has this been going on, how long do I keep holding on, my soul enchanted with Old Jericho and a stolen Eve, she serves me a dish that bleeds bitter deeds, O Hecate! Maybe my shoulder blades ache from the phantom pain of what used to be wings. Soaring in a Soterian sky now sowing through soil, sore with stings, pangs of paradise, pain and sea, paint me with clarity, what do you wish, to see and where do you want, to take me? If only I could have known, these pink rubies and gold had you earthbound in a mind outgrown. I am for the air. You deserve to be with God, because you outshine us all.