Crawl across them, warrior!
The corpses are your own, the skulls
you stared in to the eyes of a week or
two ago, now nothing but death before
you. Their mothers weep, somewhere,
and rain falls on their memory, but you
shall crawl, crawl onwards, to the end of
life itself, if just to take revenge for them all!
These hills are old, dear child. You shall
wander them one day; yes, one day. Soon,
in the eyes of eternity. Everything is so soon.
Death is so soon, love is so soon, and you will
face them all, but you will stand, dear child. You
must, for it is what we all depend on. Everything
that was before, is now with you.
Look at them, buzzing around the lamp like flies
in the night.
Their shadows bring pain to my bleary eyes, but I cannot
shut them now.
This rancid painting in moving form is too beautiful,
a drifting corpse,
floating down the streams of time, those clear waters,
impersonal and serene,
they take it all towards the jaws of everlasting darkness.
Shall we dance?
Remembering William Butler Yeats: June 13, 1865–January 28, 1939
Forward with a Vengeance
By the Twisted Word, Slain; By the Good Word, Saved . . . & Other Stories Part III
How to Build White Communities in Small Towns
Remembering Ezra Pound (October 30, 1885 to November 1, 1972)
Remembering Aleister Crowley
(October 12, 1875–December 1, 1947)
Remembering T. S. Eliot:
September 26, 1888–January 4, 1965
Weimerican Horror Story