Birth of a God

As I am writing, I am relentlessly fighting the dead voices. Accosted by them now and always.

Deciding what to do with my choices.

I am neither here nor there, with you or with me.

I can’t seem to break free, part the veil and slip through the seams.

One after another, bones splinter and falter under the weight of worlds I don’t know.

Skys that follow my eyes and ground that shifts and sighs, breathing deep long breaths of something alive.

What am I to do? With all of this I am not sure I could continue.

The mountains are eyes, I’ve been coughing up flies.

Red and sharp, made out of my own sinew.

Breathing feels like glass has grown within my spine, flexing and rearranging my design.

I forget what I am half the time. I am not sure if I could define all the things I see in the space

outside my human paradigm.

I am the parter of veils, both the gate and the key.

I feed on nothing. I only watch my form part abhorrently.

Amorphous and split between it all, I see the rise of man and the coming fall.

Despite the pain I endured before, I can barely remember who I was anymore.

I am what I am.

My eyes like stars, uncountable.

My form no longer anatomical.

I see the cosmos for what it is: a writhing pit of germs and shit.

Beings growing from one another and dying the same day.

I am all, I am one. I am the opener of the way.

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