Heresy
Nourished on decay, my pen bleeds,
feeding my page with rivulets
from a torn chest burdened
by the mournful heft of history,
gravid with malcontent abstractions.
Voices from a past confused, speak in vivid horrors,
a dense romantic gloom stirring
bittersweet negation towards a jaded millennium
executed by the sterile spectres of reactionary nationalists
gorging on the fetid signs of deconsecration,
serving watered-down symbols
from the skulls of cynics sour with mortification.
Textbooks turned prophesies, decomposing and powerless
against the nurtured turmoil of entropy.
Desperation for catechism describes fractured fates
wallowing in disembowelled polemics
and self-renunciation.
We’ve been warned,
some even remember,
yet everywhere is a mounting malice
in the dirty hands of urchins.