I see the open eyes of strangers looming in the din.

I see the fiendish faces of friends in the same obscurity.

I see the shuddering foundations of a generation left behind, and I have seen the image in the mirror; showing all horror in unison.

It is the nighttime retreat.

It is the Devil’s Kiss…Beelzebub, along with his gilded brethren suckling on dreams long thrown away by jaded youth.

Hope laden sorrows adorn caves of the blameless.

Thoughts rescued upon heavy anchors nearly lost to the cacophony of the ages,

sink endlessly bottoming on river of doubt.

This I can see.

I travel and become part of lost images and ideas like low lying, and deadened fruit cradled upon the wasteful ground.

I travel where night continues to grow until its blackened hue envelopes everything in one last attempt to be rid of it all.

I track fallen angels to their place of impact, only to find them naked, weeping, and alone.

How hast God led them?

Is lost the hope that was promised in the hymn?

The gnarly boned forfeiters of tomorrows dreams will not adapt, nor will the mealy mouthed serpents that prey on life’s promise.

But rest assured they will attend.

Marked are these words.

Pagans and heathens shall take notice of the sinewy feast of tomorrow’s saints.

Long lost freedom will ring out truth while it drifts into nevermore.

Trumpets will scream, colors will run, and all of time’s assassins will line up for the final shot.

But it shall never come.

It shall never be.

Mystery will unveil truth lying below tar laden bayous, showing itself to only the chosen, only the cold, only the barren living in squalor frilled circumstances of unruly substance, only the liars and the immediate vagabond.

Those who inhale the heavens shall shout from above, and meander down to levels of the infernal, yet opposing none.

Harbingers of upright disillusion create multitudes of ethereal beings primed for the offing like soldiers of travesty mistakenly victorious in an unmarked war.

There shall be no praise, no epitaph to cling to, no solace, no joy.

Cacophonous laughter and sarcastic virtue flap their wings with furious disregard, echoing into nocturne with great delight.

All of the fury and decadence of Sodom, and the bawdy awakenings of Gomorrah will writhe in the nadirs of iniquity.

Seldom do wings upon cherubs burn with such vehemence, rarely does abhorrence glint in the saviour’s eye. Trouble abounds, yet trouble awakens.

The thorn will cultivate before the seed, and the tempest shall come amidst the calm.

All that careens from the spring of truth shall be upturned, dismay will have its revenge.

The masturbatory envy of the Pagan Gods shall be adulated with clandestine fancy, and beleaguered departure.

Ejaculatory sermons will prevail over familiar symbolism, and will continue to prevail under strenuous and Aristotelian plight.

Throngs of pious and lustful mortals will incessantly be linked to Darwin’s final gasp.

Sinai will shudder at the magnitude of the ominous din.

The bush will continue to scorch in spite of Moses’ righteous canon.

Cherubim with golden ringlets will scowl towards the heavens in desperation, and the Almighty shall lament over broken lyre.

Fortification nor lust for glory shall reconstitute fragmented foundation.

Everything will be in place.

In darkness’ closing twilight, awakenings churn in anticipation of heavenly fulfillment.

A new dawn, a new age…

Fruition’s final caress.