Malphaestus
Touched by the Apocalypse
Moon's Flower
We are the soul within which we spend all our hours;
A pillar to soar through the vacant, radiance to split the emptiness,
Built out of sapience.
Our balance of power, our great spire that above all had towered,
Mauled by this darksome floral sprawl that shalt all devour;
Fear the moon's flower, born of the sin ladened from depths deep within,
It cares naught from whence it is brought nor for whom it has fought.
All it can see is the pain we may feel, from there does it grow until we relinquish our control,
Whether through our own will or forces surreal,
I would never reveal for this goes beyond what I know to believe.
From one who has fought to another who may not, I must pray that this pain never finds you;
Do not drown 'neath the shine which comes down from dark skies most profound-
For the shine of the moon breeds flowers which will bind you.
Allow me thus to write my story born of fright,
Of my soul torn apart by this flower drowned in fraught,
And the seed which with it, it had brought;
The nightmares I have fought.
When did it come, that root which had sprung,
In the back of my head like weeds to dread;
The taint to any garden, the thread one ought shed?
The thought which was spun rendered years left undone;
What if all which was fun made me feel o' so numb,
All who were great seemed like nothing but scum,
And problems thought done-
Were merely the door for far more to come along?
Indeed they would do, think twice do the fooled,
All that was said: the truth I was fed, too great for our mind to unwed;
There is nary a will to oppose what's instilled,
So who would miss bliss in the endless abyss?
That is just like this, but the choice was not ours;
All of our sown flowers, the roots that we'd grown,
Their textures of silk, colours mirroring hope of the most joyous of folk,
A fertile field that bestowed it's goodwill upon all that would grow,
Seeds that would blow through wind to-and-fro,
But all it would take was to peel at the fake.
For behind this ideal would remain doom concealed:
A fiery bloom which could only consume,
Born of the wrong we would never had shown.
Deep we had gone to recognize the error we had done,
Yet what had we known, for what could we be shown?
We could nary reveal our truth to ourselves,
For who were we, if not merely me;
You do not see, we could never see clearly.
What is a fault if it is recognized as naught,
What is a will if it is made out of steel:
Never to budge, never to break,
To stand upon stable feet, even if meek?
Defending your right even if there's none to fight,
Such is a life dictated by thought, let this not be forgot,
Lest you wish to embed the nightmare into the head;
Only the moon would sing victories to the fooled,
And o' it would do, were we to allow it to.
Planted from naught grew a fruit made of the dark,
And in this mere pot, in the darkness and the rot,
Appeared what devoured: flower of the taught.
What had been brought required so much more thought,
That the depths we'd been lead demanded more than we'd bring.
Lost we were then, as the room we were in would cave in;
A piece of ourselves forever lost to the delved,
Fragment of self left in it's lonely place, to always live in disgrace.
It was never so easy, the root of the seed of this most heinous weed,
Darker than eyes could see, deeper than mere thoughts could reach:
The fruit grew in the primordial well within which human nature dwelled.
Freed from what was sworn, where once naught shall be known,
All to reveal, the new creed that is worn; the truth to be reborn-
When the new age dawn.
We are the soul within which we spend all our hours;
A pillar to soar through the vacant, radiance to split the emptiness,
Built out of sapience.
Our balance of power, our great spire that above all had towered,
Mauled by this darksome floral sprawl that shalt all devour;
Fear the moon's flower, born of the sin ladened from depths deep within,
It cares naught from whence it is brought nor for whom it has fought.
All it can see is the pain we may feel, from there does it grow until we relinquish our control,
Whether through our own will or forces surreal,
I would never reveal for this goes beyond what I know to believe.
From one who has fought to another who may not, I must pray that this pain never finds you;
Do not drown 'neath the shine which comes down from dark skies most profound-
For the shine of the moon breeds flowers which will bind you.
Allow me thus to write my story born of fright,
Of my soul torn apart by this flower drowned in fraught,
And the seed which with it, it had brought;
The nightmares I have fought.
When did it come, that root which had sprung,
In the back of my head like weeds to dread;
The taint to any garden, the thread one ought shed?
The thought which was spun rendered years left undone;
What if all which was fun made me feel o' so numb,
All who were great seemed like nothing but scum,
And problems thought done-
Were merely the door for far more to come along?
Indeed they would do, think twice do the fooled,
All that was said: the truth I was fed, too great for our mind to unwed;
There is nary a will to oppose what's instilled,
So who would miss bliss in the endless abyss?
That is just like this, but the choice was not ours;
All of our sown flowers, the roots that we'd grown,
Their textures of silk, colours mirroring hope of the most joyous of folk,
A fertile field that bestowed it's goodwill upon all that would grow,
Seeds that would blow through wind to-and-fro,
But all it would take was to peel at the fake.
For behind this ideal would remain doom concealed:
A fiery bloom which could only consume,
Born of the wrong we would never had shown.
Deep we had gone to recognize the error we had done,
Yet what had we known, for what could we be shown?
We could nary reveal our truth to ourselves,
For who were we, if not merely me;
You do not see, we could never see clearly.
What is a fault if it is recognized as naught,
What is a will if it is made out of steel:
Never to budge, never to break,
To stand upon stable feet, even if meek?
Defending your right even if there's none to fight,
Such is a life dictated by thought, let this not be forgot,
Lest you wish to embed the nightmare into the head;
Only the moon would sing victories to the fooled,
And o' it would do, were we to allow it to.
Planted from naught grew a fruit made of the dark,
And in this mere pot, in the darkness and the rot,
Appeared what devoured: flower of the taught.
What had been brought required so much more thought,
That the depths we'd been lead demanded more than we'd bring.
Lost we were then, as the room we were in would cave in;
A piece of ourselves forever lost to the delved,
Fragment of self left in it's lonely place, to always live in disgrace.
It was never so easy, the root of the seed of this most heinous weed,
Darker than eyes could see, deeper than mere thoughts could reach:
The fruit grew in the primordial well within which human nature dwelled.
Freed from what was sworn, where once naught shall be known,
All to reveal, the new creed that is worn; the truth to be reborn-
When the new age dawn.
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