Lost Verse of Legion

Featured artwork by L.H. Grey

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Bruno Nicolai  “La coda dello scorpione – Sequence 1”

Within the palm of the decadent
Reptilian afterbirth
Bleeding congealed clots of misconception
Drowned amidst immaculate conception

Outdated concession forfeited
Stripped of mortal revenue
Dripping poisoned residue
Attenuated dermis drenched clean through

By presumption that our second coming can be drawn to a stand
Within the amphitheater of the infinite damned

By now you understand
We are legion of two
Deviation on demand
Trembling glass in skeletal hand
Loathed to humanity’s blind indifference to fellow-man

Welcome to our wasteland
Be henceforth steeped in unimaginable hazard
Abomination as we smear the witless in their own fecal matter
Not of happenstance
For our recreation is their pale ash scattered
Our unearthly integration of non-differential equation
Hath long since been prophecized
By harbingers of hapless indication

It is fruitless to quantify the indignation
As we drip feed bane to those drunk on vengeful elation
Their ruination the vegetation within which we fortify these very foundations
Their tears of desolation populate our thriving waterway
Washed away by paragons of virtue
The likes of which they could never entertain

We are the arachnid membrane
Our silken gossamer weighs down hard on the spineless
Singing their senseless sonnets to the jar baby mindless
Like puppets on unharmonious strings
Every movement measured
Defiled bloodline severed
Making pig-ignorance appear clever

Lives analyzed, condemned and soon to be dismembered
Mortal remains now mere smoldering embers
That which insinuates consuming fire
Doused by the Stygian waters of an ageless devotion
Bound not to legislation

She is Alpha
Howbeit of left ascension
For the devils charred remains She ingested
To glimpse beneath the emaciated veil of Janus-faced scripture
Centuries fall away enfeebled in her supreme wake
As She slakes her thirst for mastery with primordial pressé

This Demigod parading human rind solely to observe this desecrated boneyard
Insects pressed in her scrapbook of facsimile shadows
Cellophane clad curiosities trapped within their own amniotic sacs
Shattering placentae dissecting their hypothesis akin to hot wax
Strangulated by umbilical barbed in razor wire harsh
Exhibits in the exquisite Museum that is She

I am Omega
Howbeit not inclined to angular gesticulation
Beneath the delicate embrace of her ashen plumage
My dust is white gold
Aged rust is extolled
Abrasions seen as precious metal keepsakes
Imperfections magnified and glorified
These wings outstretched and boundless ocean-wide
As She masterminds her magnum opus

One flawless reflection
Within which She hath discerned her own divine splendor
Tendering a love unadulterated by corporeal deficiency
Exhibiting a destructive tenderness which deconstructs and fortifies
She is the beast with forty eyes
And I see her with clarity of scatheless crystalline
With all forty of mine

We are legion of two
Howbeit, our militia is already a hundred thousand-strong
This pendulum swinging ever lower
As it positions for evisceration
The gutless shall soon be made literal
Their cruor shall be the emulsion of our next magnum opus

While the voiceless
The brave
Shall be granted mercy
Shall arise once more
Our long-lost testament to each other shall form the curriculum of future generations
For ours is the one true salvation

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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