Coalescence of principles

you are the wyrd, the wyrm, the wryth,
the wraith,
singing along stillborn lakes dipped in fog
of carnations
quench your thoughts
in the roaring hips of woe

There were the times of hiding, killing and running. The loss of friends, purpose, hope and self. Whining like an infant cradled by the unknown, he strolled forward. Pale as a ghost, masked with dust and regret and the jostling pain in his very chest.
I ain’t seeing no end of this nightmare, sir, said the paler shade of his face.
 There's no end to this, said the other shade, grayed with fragments of coal dust and ash.
But how are we getting back then?
We ain’t getting back. Nor we're getting anywhere. There's a long road ahead. The road is the only visible direction.

kill and eat
nest and spit
encircle, reach,
then kill again,
feed, breed,
repeat.

this has been a proper way of your bloodline for millennia

lingering nurseries as if I was your child,
O, Unnamed Goddess of the ********ry.
your nectary be praised in thousands of songs and hymns,
in cold apartments as in hot tubs and soft-walled castles,
blood bloated foxholes, burning tents, smelly vans.

Oh, *****ina, let me go,
let me run with my tongue out, whispering psalms and
vulgarities and then prayers.

Let me out in the field, wearing khaki
Let me out from the forest
Let me fly like a fletcher's dream
Let me stick my logos anywhere I go

My time has come to an end.
The sun goes southbound with a cracking sound
of gnashing teeth. I send
my apologies and condolences, I have not found
nor heard of the titans who built
that temple of the Wyrd, Wyrm,
Wryth and Wraith.

There’s still hope, it bears another name.