Mystic Violence of the Astral Flame

My desire to become lost along my journey, to assume the role of some slavering mutant cannibal, is evidence of my mortal fear.  The world holds back: plague of indifference, engendering desire as a means to escape.  Ritualizing covenants surrounding blood and lust, incapacitating nerve, a desire to feel nothing.   

It’s impossible not to feel in this place.  Every molecule cannibalizes itself like the air around it; consuming as it retches, gasping as it breathes in.  Nor is there escaping it this time as the focus of our intent is clear. 

It is only the beginning –

The beginning of what?

Didn’t you see it the first time? –

That it never ends.  Even as we keep coming back to the same image of ourselves, without  form and shadow, outlined against the gate, yet never through.  facsimiles released through terminal glass and very rarely invited to return.  There are things in there which may only be summoned out of the highest attunement of despair and inner-sacrifice. 

Admitting Falsehood (Origins) World dies as he grows – And no tears under the Marble Mask, A stoic demon, this Oriax,  Who floods the righteous with emotion; Some even consider him a god,  Deriding and sanctimonious; Only the blind could see it this way, Pursuing its shadow through the cracks . . . The man shudders:  Flash of a room, bed and chair, Behind the eyes, in a torture chamber; Veiled proximity, all at once revealed. Begetting suicide, burning it to the ground,  Embers going out in the dead mask’s gaze – A new light emits in its place, Triumphal stare of silver and gold,  Observing the man’s brutal transformation . . . The man knows a demon when he sees it, Dripping pride wherever it goes – No gateway to its mind, no word for its heart, Yet here stands its visage, remote but urgent; Chaotic, yet seemingly unchanged, Until the Marble Mask falls, And the silent question is answered.