I Went Home and Nobody There Knew You

There’s a certain agony to waiting, On pain or rust. Cold or death. As if growing pains were so true, I’d believe the feeling to be a-like. I suffer from a particular waiting, A vision, like a vein in my hands. Oh sturdied, enigmatic thing! A voice spoken by all things, A piece of the dark in every corner, Tucked in every envelope, Dusted under your finger nails. It screams, and it whispers. Oh true, insufferable thing! A constant reverberation, An honest noise. Foretold, or premised, felt, known, This pain exists because I already have seen it. Our future is a blind thing Oh pernicious, didactic thing! A bleak detonation, harboring a single sovereign tone, And I am its apostle. The Hierophant’s reflection. Tell me, when the earth longs for winter What will its insects do. When there is no longer a cold torpor To let down their wings, To lull and lullaby them into bliss, What will they make of this apocalypse? What of my bald faced hornet, A true wasp doomed by its mongering name. That first winter, When their queens borough and abandon, When there is No safety in old oblivion, what will they become? Like poison, I bite at my limbs I destroy them Devour and adorn it And yet I live like poison Like poison, I bite at my limbs I destroy them Devour and adore it And yet I live like poison Oh Praise this consuming thing A delusion nested in a delusion Prophecy written into itself Ouroboros or autobiography There is no way to recreate the self in No defense from this parasitism To know is to devour To act is to create is to become. And Such leeches are not equal. Might these wasps become me in my sleep Id hope their boogeyman becomes them too. Oh Annihilation, solemn thing. I will become something again Bending light apparatus Show me somethin that matters Hereby or there gone, It all gets Raptured Fermented fruit and wheat pastures An ovipositor or apples Becoming what your after Wanting, craving Raptures I don't see the point in this shit The conceit was banking now its whether or not farmers exist The id, the pain of knowing it becomes what it is Another fable for the abyss The conceit was the parasite/paradise But I cant remember witch parasite it is