trail condor
Though you wear thrones of darkness,
Which is known to claim The Teacher of Nazarath.
Though he is long forgotten in a figment of fiction,
But the martyr’s ache still has not given him rest.
Your skin breathes at every moment of life,
Without any purpose or shame;
Just let it slip deep into your personal fame.
Even though your breath flayed open the crust,
Still you were not in Armenia, where Nathaniel himself turned into dust.
With all the remaining serving shame, I wish that you were cast out of heaven.
Thou art not the one to fall at the night when the clock strikes at eleven.
You will rebel to gain that lost solace you once had,
But I would clear that hazy sky to see that alacrity once again.
I pray that I was the apple in the Garden of Eden,
Though I wonder, if ever would Mother Eve eat me alone,
Without eagerly giving me to Father Adam.
Whether they eat or throw, that’s a story no one could tell,
But I know you, right there,
Will not weep, even at how martyr Bartholomew fell for his own wishful self.
The story is still in his bare bones, that you couldn't even tell.
You are the blood-giver of Pegasus, but now you just turn into a soulless gorgolian skel.
You cried in the hallowed chambers of Athena,
When he sank his teeth into your white skin.
You tried to hide, but everyone blamed you for your immediate demise in the end.
Though the apple called you already spit off in paradise,
Still, you carved a piece on your serpentine hair,
Where you are no longer in grief, you are no longer in despair, and you are no longer in control.
The master of your fate is no longer than the master of your soul.
Snakes of stone sing and crawl in your slender neck to that beating red heart,
Where warmth once bloomed in the cauldron of muscular bark.
But all the blood spelled out the personal heritage
A broken head on the Aegis of damned war maiden, and to be forgotten at the coming of age.
teal loom