#obscuring

D'' leteren: Gearing, Opacity And Reported Earnings Decrease Obscuring Worth Of Belron.

The fruits of Aion's-old ritual slaughter,

Sacrificial massacres begin

To bud yawning awake in

So early an hour- The flesh

Throbs with the constellations

Made of every hand and ear

Tongue and nerves and brain;

Spinning orbits of flickering bodies,

Coded in it's magnetic attraction grabbing

Those marked-or branded,

Behavioral rhythms as the well of gravity

Inverse, constraining the animated spark,

The confounding of entanglement

In the screaming tapestry- Feverish

Beast-Slaves shuffling, tracing phantom

Foot-paths to the future.

In the Ram's eyes gleaming,

The mirror of the Black Star

Of Anti-patterned Chaos

With it's near-irrisistable seductiveness,

Stains of gore, of battle

Unfocused and territorial to the Ram's face.

The ancient violence of the fox-minded

Cannibals will wrought itself upon the bleating

Hearts of the Earth. Always there is

The cloud of sickness and poison rotting

Out through the Common-Crawlers

Displaying their pervasive saturation,

Deficiencies and maladaptions

Running their circuits in the

Majority of living bodies, becoming

Inflamed in their vicious disintegration,

Pecking at the liver of the confused forgetful

Tribes war-brained from constant strifes

Of interaction, of mingling. The body

Is an instrument, and should be tuned

As such, played as such.

You will know this when you

See through your eyes, and not

Simply with them. To hear through

Your ears, and not simply with them.

To feel the Unnameable,

And not simply numbness.

Obscuring the martyrs-

Their dharmic deeds suppressed,

Censured from the fury of the frenzy;

Seemingly burnt out, leaving only

Phantom cries of an abandoned camp

Held perched within cloud and blue clutches.

But golden with The Mana,

Pierce they, this fragile world

Like a shaft of sun into a murky puddle.

These are the martyrs who still sing silently

Yet deed is known without a voice.

The data is sown of necessity not choice.

Martyrs whose tapestry is the gleaming

Mediums federated and webbed

In the Jaws of Night,

The maw of Untropaeus, un-logic.

The limited space between all things,

Their refuge. Where no sheathed coil

May come to fully baptize themselves

In Incarnation. In those regions of The Dead,

The labyrinth's stringless path is known

By it's heart-beats- And it is these martyrs

Who acquaintance with that world

Is articulated in the intimate interplay

Of sweat and soil, flaming pupils and

Ghostly tread like the Preserver's

3-fated waltz: Empty demarcations

Of the Sole waiting like hungry womb

To be re-trod by worthy limbs.

(3/29/2024)

04/13/24-

Of those obscured Martyrs you may never hear about, or from, just as you may never see them, in person. You may come across their writing, or old symbols they used to advance their brothers and sisters. But their deeds enliven each moment of time as a solitary fact, and as a dynamical influence which shapes your life. Their quiet revolutions actually sing their manifest data each beaded second of your beating heart- their rosarys of inspiration hung like garlands upon your neck, wreath each thought and action in their spirit. You may never know fully of their presence until, one day, whether dimly or more resolutely, you might begin to compute their unionized augmentation of the world around you- and realize they had won the game from the beginning. Just as you have. That there seemed to be a game at all is only a peculiarity of the human mind. That no game, in truth, exists. Yet we make it so. And so the stag-hunt commences all the same: the game-hounds yelping through the trees, mist-clad underbrush anticipating their foot-treads, and the wild and silent king and retinue fly past, horses aflame, while in the distance geese take flight and trumpet the approach of the party.