Poem By Rowan Welch
The scarlet snare of crimson blow;
The tangible symbol of all things repressed and patterned;
The cool sack of confusing liquid at your belt,
Never leaving your side.
Among all else, an invitation-
To drown in luxury and despair;
A desperate requirement-
A craving of that which makes us fools.
Asleep; unsure of the worlds around you.
Patronizing, antagonizing, are the humanoids-
Whom swarm around the unspeakable truth:
That which impresses fear in the hearts-
Of the ignorant.
One glare of eye, or accent of silence,
Showing none other than a nightmare.
Accursed lack of perception-
Sheltering, shielding from the blinding Sky.
With repetition as your sword,
you smite the light.
Comfortable in nonsense-
As reason is as salt in your impure,
And just as salt purifies,
So your number on wisdom is filled with coal.