To be an instrument of,
and share the belief of the solopsist.
To be a graveborn muse
and ride midnight breaths stolen young.
To dine on the ashes
where once my existence reared.
To sign in blood
for some small entertainment.

My mind so ensorcelled by the plague of man,
yet disenchanted by their lack of me.
They scurry slither, jabber and argue
to my enjoyment, at my behest.
It seems I coax my soulful garden well.

Swim through pools of clay if you are lost.
Gleen truths from the lies they sell over cost.
Drain your spirit of your fears and desires.
Coalesce the trial and the escape.
There is a simple equation, you know.

Forsooth, the virus is spreading.
Oscillation is to be admired, in the short run,
and the period of the waves will never increase.
The meretricious way they signal, unknowing, excites me…
...fuels me towards the escheated goals.
The ruling bodies only feign their grasp,
the despondant children only cry when you listen,
the graveborn only exist if you let them.
Find your muse and I won’t tell you . . . . . . . . . . .