The Abstraction of Ritual

A mental dilation in prescient observation,

Cognizant deprivation, a lust for creation,

Provoked by malignant trepidation.

A sensory saturation distracts from Saturnalia deprecation,

Meat-mechanisms malfunctioning in work-a-day strangulation,

Piece-meal justification of 9-5 lifer deification,

Sinful supplication, gateway to disgusting procrastination,

Corporate suffocation...

Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum,

I hear the beat of a death-drum.

In order to displease,

Action riddled with linguistic disease,

I fashion a demonic speech likened to a banshee screech.

Within a creatrix of cavernous shadow;

An emblem of hieratic horror & macabre side-show,

Intrudes the cruel light of the meridian,

Carried by the pale wraith of reason.

In the Netherworld there are no lights on the streets,

Only hazardous pathways, dark and replete,

Littered with blood & skulls and the peal of the death-toll,

Sounded by children scarred by parents trapped in a fish-bowl,

Hell is not down below, it exists within hearth and home.

The only way to avoid another Columbine,

Is to write these words down with urgency sublime,

To the signature of carousel & the rhythm of catacomb,

Heralding unprecedented doom within your sterile gloom,

Words composed in the black ink of a psychopath's blood,

Air suffused with blood of a mutilated dove;

A sacrifice to the antiquated notion of companionship & love.

Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum,

I hear the beat of a death-drum...

Tick Tock, Clip, Clop,

Death & Time is our Father combined.