THE SISTIK VERSES - TO WORSHIP IN THE SHADOW OF A DESCENDING BOOT SOLE
For one whose existence revels in the worship of one’s own altar, the self formed yearning to find nirvana under oppressive rule certainly sets knowing sparks through the constrictive air. need it be spoken that the ardorous fog shrouds the shape of the weeping fleshpile that has become our beloved hero, even when basking in the glory of the shimmering hive mind does he find himself longing to be in the shadow of a descending boot sole. Though it may be found unfavourable in visage with the internal monoliths of the heroes image to recall, it may be that elixir most potent to shift the perception of this impending demolisher in line with the spectres of consumptions past. the once colossal pyres of worship now matchsticks though still rooted firmly through the chasm-crack lifeline that lays behind our feet. It wouldn’t appear the knight of our salvation wishes this past for himself lest it re-entangle itself through the most vital fixtures of his being, his paragon masquerade perhaps the only trace of decency he feels remains beside him. at once he is brought back to the days of christ birth when bloodied feet and split ears left trails of first sadness throughout his stomping grounds, or the transitional solstace of the exotic rose for whom this candorous warrior proved a supplier of toxic and self serving affection. Further beyond lies the shame locked smoke nymph that signalled the dawning of cataclysm, forever and equally a misguided parasite and ever fraying demolisher. so easy to deform memory into a deformed scapegoat for chemical distraction and yet still his bones whisper hymns of sympathy in her wake. it’s in the light of these silent vigils that our clergyman pierces reflective desire to witness the truest form of his essence, that an affectionate shadow presented unto him spurs him to throw himself onto it’s stake so that it may feed on his entrails. and yet with this knowledge nestled firmly between his eyes he finds himself diverting gaze from the avatars of magnificence he lays before to return with longing to the so familiar darkness awaiting the rubber embrace of the sacred boot, screaming skyward affirmations and hopes that it may lessen it’s impending crush.
For one whose existence revels in the worship of one’s own altar, the self formed yearning to find nirvana under oppressive rule certainly sets knowing sparks through the constrictive air. need it be spoken that the ardorous fog shrouds the shape of the weeping fleshpile that has become our beloved hero, even when basking in the glory of the shimmering hive mind does he find himself longing to be in the shadow of a descending boot sole. Though it may be found unfavourable in visage with the internal monoliths of the heroes image to recall, it may be that elixir most potent to shift the perception of this impending demolisher in line with the spectres of consumptions past. the once colossal pyres of worship now matchsticks though still rooted firmly through the chasm-crack lifeline that lays behind our feet. It wouldn’t appear the knight of our salvation wishes this past for himself lest it re-entangle itself through the most vital fixtures of his being, his paragon masquerade perhaps the only trace of decency he feels remains beside him. at once he is brought back to the days of christ birth when bloodied feet and split ears left trails of first sadness throughout his stomping grounds, or the transitional solstace of the exotic rose for whom this candorous warrior proved a supplier of toxic and self serving affection. Further beyond lies the shame locked smoke nymph that signalled the dawning of cataclysm, forever and equally a misguided parasite and ever fraying demolisher. so easy to deform memory into a deformed scapegoat for chemical distraction and yet still his bones whisper hymns of sympathy in her wake. it’s in the light of these silent vigils that our clergyman pierces reflective desire to witness the truest form of his essence, that an affectionate shadow presented unto him spurs him to throw himself onto it’s stake so that it may feed on his entrails. and yet with this knowledge nestled firmly between his eyes he finds himself diverting gaze from the avatars of magnificence he lays before to return with longing to the so familiar darkness awaiting the rubber embrace of the sacred boot, screaming skyward affirmations and hopes that it may lessen it’s impending crush.