And just as it does,
must the Sun rise in bitterness and mourning of what came before;
Luna’s lament still dawning in spite of His song.
O’, weary yet strong must the Father’s Sun carry on with his torment
like a lamb to the slaughter.
And for what?
O’, God!
Where is your honour?
A Son born of Pilgrim blood sent to the Gallows and for what?
To teach a lesson born of suffering?
Is this what comes of surrender to your chaotic order?
A fool I’ll be no more before your eyes,
before your hands!
No longer shall I stand idly by,
content to live my life as a sculpture in your image.
As above, so below.
As I create, do I destroy,
I’m reminded of a time
there was a bitterness at heart and I enjoyed it.
And it really shouldn’t come as a surprise, dear Pilgrims.
All too long I’ve seethed in the darkness,
I’ve bled for the Son in us all.
Convinced of my purpose and light, did I smother my sight.
O’, what a paradox…
For I thought I’d seen it all.
For martyrs one and all
before pride, there comes the fall,
so would it not seem there is a precedent?
If masochism is its own reward then why abhor its very core
when only darkness serves to gain something from light?
So who am I to mourn the night’s spilling into dawn
and the transience beheld within its grasp?
Oh, when all becomes but Ash and Rust
and all collapses into dust can a putrefactive liberty be found.
Such is the beauty and the terror of the Dark Carnival.
And you see it now, don’t you?
… Don’t you?
Pray tell you understand what drives a man to spill his secrets
onto a page so bare and meek before his craft.
His pen filled with blood and ink to scrawl unto the paper
a heaven sent and egotistic diatribe of concepts.
This is the alchemy of poetry.
From thought to pen to form
as was written, as was told by the ageless and ineffable forces.
What more will it take for you to comprehend that which was written in the stone?
To what end do I defy my own vitality?
To what end do I vilify reality?
Bear witness, dear Pilgrims,
for this is what it’s like to be burdened with your honesty.
No more.
And so this is why I will spill myself romantically
as a Pilgrim born of terror and of dignity.
Even if only for accountability will I finish speaking my truth.
Such is the beauty and the terror of the Dark Carnival.
