The Crying Rivers

This piece is about the distance man goes to in order that he may rectify himself for the redemption of another.

Farther that the birds soar across the burning sky, the crying rivers surge through the hollow reed that has become my corpse.

I sing cold songs, the more the rudder breaks down.

The seer shall render a countergauge that creates fundamental truths sung by angelic winds residing inside crystal havens.

I am the wind that blows through your lustrous hair.

I am the waters that float in your enthroned eyes when you are surrounded by the thunderstorm emerging from the darkest depths of your engrossed soul.

How can you stand here looking through my soulful windows with fierce eyes?

For the nakedness of your bleeding tomb shall follow my heart around, and haunt rigid doors of my glass mind, whenever I shall have to endure rudimentary scribes who refuse to distance themselves from my troubled roses.

Your thorns thirst for my blood, because only cryptic scrolls can bring you back to life with their congregated chanters who conjure up docile winds to create jagged melodies that cut into my spongy spirit, and rip my organs apart with your channeled voice.

For I refuse to accept these tongs of onyx you offer me, in exchange for your enslaved tongue that lashes out at optical rays of the sun.

Taste me, if you dare.

For the more you sting my blistered flesh with your demented bite, the longer it will take for my hungry flames to enter your depleting corpse.

Ashes of the dead shall cover my body in sentimental dreams belonging to my inner child, for the sorrow that shadows my propelling visions of your icy pools of blood. 

Author's Note

What do you think of the prose/imagery?