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Words by Julian Drury
Image by Hanna Bechtle
All hail great madness in depth,
To see a fleeting face upon guild and age?
Time is so short for genius
As Ravens circle unknown graves.
Is your sorrow a measure,
only for the happiness of future born?
Am I as sad as you?
Drunken, perhaps on my own self-doubt?
For my barber, get this image cleaned.
I am troubled by the face I see before me.
What is horror? An enemy?
Is it an ally, a guide to what lies ahead?
Am I to make friends with horror?
Does it share your face, as with mine?
All touched is bent, for animals and men.
Black cats, apes, mutants and crumbling houses.
Walled in by brick and mortar, tactic revenge.
Hatred is love, though only to the unsympathetic.
I will sail into your maelstrom,
Navigate the beauty and terror you hold in written vain.
No Kingdom or jester is too petty.
No plague or beating-heart is too easy to read.
You are a treasure seeker.
I am always forced to read you in different ways.
All is interesting in you.
All things mundane are terrors.
Is your genius bound only to your tragedy?
Does euphoric death bind to your nature?
The gravestone is a mere ruse, an object.
It is an object, as I am, as you once were.
What matter of insanity is credited as genius?
How much genius is credited as insanity?
Am I dreaming? Is this all a snare within a trap?
Dreams may come, with shadows as bright as a black sun.
Do I ask too much of you? Shall I weep upon the gravestone?
The gravestone, perhaps, is my own.
#Unreal #Gravestone #EuphoricDeath #MundaneTerrors #BlackSun
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