He Became

He Became has been published in All of Me Vol. IV, courtesy of Shadow Spark Publishing. Featured art is from Scott Derrickson’s Paradise Lost.

Listen to He Became by Richard Charles Stevens

Listen to Sonne Instrumental by Rammstein

his flesh broke like bread
as he bled upon the canvas
deep in the throes of harmonious madness
wanting for nothing
aside from the suffering
felt as though entirely undermining to discourage him
slides of other lives reminded all about him buffering
touching him
tasting him
ever persuading he reciprocate then make great haste to smother him
way too late for shamefacing the other him
for such was long forsaken when awakened from recovery

his flesh broke like bread
no lament to the dead
yet ten thousand mouths fed of one soul coalesced
abreast of each pain bidding mesh every vein
unexpressed regret, remorse
amorphous of the membrane
of the fallen slain
proclaimed no end their tethers dressed
all of whom living or dead to remain
in address bidding mesh every festering vein
every last breath declared be spared impaired domain
fearful not whence swords be armed
for wicked games were mere façade
discharge of the cruel disbarred from ever making great their scars
while billows raged and gales blew hard
at peace, some way from stern regard
wanting for nothing
except for the suffering
something presiding delighted the bard

his flesh broke like bread
to wear a price upon his head
encouraged rush of horses tread
to see them swiftly overspread
for should they wish his fate be sped
then fled would be their favour
and they would later wear lamenting chains for their lamentable behaviour
forming skewed assumption based on whispers from beyond the grate
blinded by self hatred
unbeknownst of bloodline tainted as a consequence of shameful face paraded

his flesh broke like bread
dressing april blush belated
the bones of winter splintered beneath him
as he stood for belief unabashed and emphatically naked
bled upon the canvas his own name in cursive tongue
came undone and blest the sacred turf
observed the rose red river running
death no more becoming
neither something he took lightly
for ne’er would such be wed to touch untimely
the tears his body shed concisely
wore the balm of aphrodite
calmed the raging flames deemed high and mighty by unsightly eyes
for suffering befit his frame entirely
touching him
tasting him
ne’er defacing him
impuissant to lay waste to the other him
for such was mere false idol they cremated
and thus, he felt encouraged that they feast upon remains
if only in blind faith that one fine day
they would be primed upon his name
his flesh broke like bread
the day that lucifer became
dressed in only truth
the morning star then gamely mused.

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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