The Seven Deadly Sins

A cautionary tale, to you
who know what I am
I am here to tell it

I remember a time
when I was lost to bitterness, and
despair had claimed
the lot of all
that I held

I was in agony
that I, myself
am hopeless to escape
the withering construct
of whom
I imagine myself
to be,
torn amid throes
in the savage weal of
undirected thought

sapped  in the snares
permissible by depravity
a known
defiler of virtue,
corrupter of pure
innocence, a harbinger
of change,
that whomsoever touches me
shall forever be
in part to my influence
that I am an elegant
of deceiving liars

with the most terrible bite
of all
do you remember when
I told you that I died,
or nearly died, my body lay
as my mind
was torn to pieces
too deeply to ever be the same
again. I killed myself
over, and over
in the wallows of pity.
Damnable creature

only by the grace of disgust
was I able
to shame myself
from the voluptuous haunts of gorging
in festival carnality

An infant
dreaming in the sensory cradle,
adrift in a storm, and
becoming increasingly aware of
the rising turbulence that
swells to crash against me,
to choke the air from my lungs
in waves of unbreathable murk,
folding in over, burying me deeper
into nothing,
cut from my cosmic swing
alone, and powerless to resist
the chill grip of fear
in this unfathomable eternity

A seed
among a multitude of seeds
in an infinite current
waiting for
time to arrive
so that I may grow an individual
into the rancor
of slave bondage
lesser forms

do you remember what I said
of love
from the first moment
of forgetfulness, a
curse begins to work its dread
into the deep, mindless spaces
where excitement and
the shock of orgasm
ought to be kept pure, between
two lovers
wrapped in arms, with
the intent to heal,
to draw in close
the one you love
to protect, to keep from pain,
is to manipulate the embrace
to abuse
I love you, and for that
I am trying to be complete.
Even in darkness
there is salvation
through touch
sensitivity to blunt form,
hard edges, sound,
a vivid overload

I told you I had found myself
a shadow
to hide behind
as though a child
playing at ghosts
in bed sheets
only, I was real
to take in hand, these
loose lengths of new skin, to
clothe a monster
to spook the unsuspecting
with a panicked fright

to yet have more than
that I could completely invoke
my form, from fantasy
to watch
from behind the mask
as fear-stricken faces
turn inside out
trying to apprehend
my magnificent horror.

treasures are expensive
beyond the obvious
they are beautiful,
cherished, and
in that
their weight
a terrible
sacrifice to purchase,
to expend
more than the measure

of ones tendency
to instead pursue desire
to advantage
while not compromising
any holdings
akin to learning
how to suit a lie
to situation

in sedentary comfort
in tangles of agony
the erotic obliteration
of unspoiled pleasures
conclusionary death
in illusion of
opulent design

bathed in deprecation
a spiral
lathed with hideous reflections
of self devouring, self
a hunger beyond mere want
to replace the absence of satisfaction
with momentary fullness
ward against starvation
even to reduce
oneself to gorging
on the viscera

in adherence to the
understanding that if
one should fall, or stumble
it is to be maintained
whilst uprightly rooted
firmly set,
stolid, one with
learned perception of dignity
that less thereof viciously
rendered: indignant, unworthy
of entitlement to criticize

to chase the devil
from sight, even
if it leads one
to an early grave
the indomitable fury, summoned
at insignificance, until
even a forgettable notion
becomes a victorless battle
one, at swords length
with self

spend extravagance on another
to curry the favor
of a blush
and redouble then, the
whilst spinning a web
designed to manipulate
the target
into surrendering power
lest the spider discard
a valueless carcass.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.


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