Full-Moon Clip

Upon the celestial ghastly prow, rises her Majesty outstretched wide
Supple light is ravished in shadow upon the sheen of her face -
An urge and a longing for something, arises, when I stare upon Her semblance

Dark crone is away for now - in this time, she fills the void of my gun, with verses of quip
Six arachnid eyes-in-one bore into me, it flips in allure in a circle, pristine
Touched only by oil, anointed, what if, what if as of yet I shall stain it, unclean?

So similar in touched patterns, it eases my torments and drives back the banter of my own distress. Sedating my thoughts with a rhythm, unimpressed; as of yet there is still a subconscious desire: to see more, acheive wisdom, and perhaps honorably expire.

How quick it crosses the wit, no matter how wise, shimmering light on stainless chrome.
A chill creeps with vices upon my gullet, knotting a noose by way of my spine. Silenced stoicism strangles my scream, a shriek upon the world for having been made with such a possibility - to die with cold blood, from metal of this steel age.

Perhaps then a feign is what serves reminder - a pistol, mis-spent, once twice clicked upon my mother. Not a once would I dream of clicking that chamber, to hear the sick noise against myself, in mockery - the song of discord would please only a pensive notion of erasing ones self, forever.

Such is the contract for safety ensigned for selfish desires - to share a thought with those whom knew the stench of writing, ire-inspired.

When ever she begins to hang upon high, when thoughts of lunacy and lethal doses of lead draw to mind, perhaps think then, whom else, stares down chambered spires?

A foulest demon comes to mind - the witless accordance, of child-like simplicity and deception; greed lusts to rape my responsibility, for anger deep dwelling still pierces its teeth with reflexive strength.

I find then such suffering shall embolden its pique, the flavor of life with a tinge of sulfur in a flash; a conjurance, faint spell of Hell in smoky trails which rises from firey rituals with thunder.

Behold not, the power of revolvers, invoked upon thyself.