BeastMature

Voraciously vicious and virile, we all have our beasts.

The night creature arches its back and howls crimson at the ghost of the moon. Eyes like bitter pools of darkness wed lips of fantasy in a staggering production of grim cinema. Motes of desire shake from the beast, scattering its weightlessness to be carried off on the breath of its moans. Silently they fall, shattering a dream, fragmenting familiar comforts and overwhelming any peace left behind. Sea foam at the mouth of the hidden opening reveals teeth of razor quality fit to shred goodness and hope with a single tear. Raked and razed as a war-torn land, ribbons of burning scars form with every motion made in the glistening dark. Drawn as magnets, lust and madness close around us like a gathering storm while bolts of energy snake through our veins and the beast bares its pride in a vicious smile. Nerves, murdered and reanimated like the walking dead dance to a tenor screamed across the breadth of the world and an orgasm of light is sent piercing the tarry depths of our souls. Shedding its skin, the beast's shape becomes formless and its hunger is satisfied on the rocky peaks of anguished desolation left as mortar-shelled corpses on the frozen ground. Starring with frost, like the glint in our eyes, our emotion ices over in preparation for the coming sun's imminent departure and the emptiness of another tired struggle. The waxing one who has watched and bore witness quietly above joins our shame, lowering his omnipresent head below the treeline and the beast slinks away, intent on the rising of another cycle of destruction.

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed