Wednesday, June 8, 2016
The Stranger (Poetic prose)
Lo! I know not where they came from: in the deep ebony eldritch scrolls of space and time into my mind; perhaps in the archives of infinite finality; out of some pocket once hidden in a gravitational wave.
Who’s to say?
Written long ago, on old scrolls by old prophets, who have once lived and amalgamated and recorded our times yet to be.
And here we are living them.
And its name I have learned, from above the invisible stars: Wormwood.
From barbarous times I was brought back, to unknown lands, and man’s devious ways, to a sea of fire, and a sea of doom, — to a nocturnal age, of unceasing querulousness, palpable and anomalousness; where eidolons mascaraed as humans.
They’re all among us: sobbing, whispering, and shouting, in multitudinous mutterings, in tumults, all have I seen, in visions.
Learned from demons, and archangels: a vision, a word, a syllable, I have put them all together, I have learned!
I loathe to speak of this land and by what name shall I call it? Babel?
And by what name do we know it? Alias, America?
Nay, it is she, the one forevermore the world seeks to destroy!
Greater than Rome, Greater than Greece in their memorable years, now the world scratches at her garments’ hem.
I’ve seen it all unraveling: she was mingled in dust.
And the world around her carried on as if nothing was wrong, as in a royal pageant.
She was the stranger, and I heard a voice ask: “Where goest though?”
And she answered not, her brow down, darkened by her own unscrupulous lamia like rulers who think they drink the ichor of the gods.
Did not her forefather’s give her an ominous dirge, to this malefic?
That men can be inhabited by coadjutant demon.
That freedom is not free?