Out of the darkness of imagination emerges a thought,
by K.M. Jones
Pure, untainted, and yet untouched by the poison of Men,
A thought that will change the face of eternity.
This colossal ideal, so innocent at birth, will bend and twist in time,
As the flames of sin kiss its rosy cheeks of ivory and wine,
Taking with it all that was free and good, replacing it with
The ideals of Man, whose morals lay so far displaced
That no hand, however divine, can reshape their shattered forms.
Pieces of the mirrior come crashing down, ending an era of
Illusion and false beliefs, spurred on by the lies of humanity,
Hearts so corrupted even a shadow fears the darkness of his love.
Like poison from the fangs of the cunning web-weaver,
The blasphemous farce goes on, ravaging minds and tearing apart
The towers so masterfully crafted by the hands of Science.
Knowledge no longer finds its purpose, Philanthropy loses its charm,
And all the world will dropp their masks of beauty and grace, and
As the clock of Time strikes its final tones at Earth's last hour,
Hold their breath in shocked disbelief as, before their clouded eyes,
Civilization, that noble genius ravaged by the disease of Man,
Comes tumbling down to rest in an unrecognizable heap.
Gaping mouths give way to the haunting song of violins,
Horrified, widening eyes melting into the tones of a cello.
The tears of the condemned pour into one chilling beauty,
One last opportunity to save the souls of the world's murderers.
As the corpses of the living dead fade into the requiem of life,
And the orchestra once more begins to play its sensual tune,
A ballerina of extravagant grace pirouettes and leaps,
The ribbons of her skirt flying like doves behind a swan
As she dances upon an empty stage,
Performing for a crowd of Death, of unspoken fears, of demons.
The stage gives way to burning sand, and demons into sky,
And the majestic prima donna, queen of the living dead,
Finds herself alone once more, in a desert of abandoned dreams.
No houses kiss the grey horizon, and no living thing sets foot
Upon the barren, flaming sands of hate and pain.
Echoes of forgotten pasts resound through the oppressive air,
Tears of unjust punishments filling the dry expanse of land,
Caressing the parched soil with the passion of lovers,
A sight almost vulgar in its brazen sexuality.
The burning land is overcome with the obsession of the rain,
And the desert gives way to endless oceans of sorrow.
The tiny, sculpted ballerina, once a queen of life,
Then a reluctant queen of walking corpses of memories,
Floats silently down through the murky waters,
Now a cold, impassive queen of death.
Her kingdom is great, and her subjects numerous,
But no kingdom, however great it expands,
And no subjects, however numerous and loyal,
Will ever save her falling soul, which will drift ever downward
For an eternity that will not let her die.