Mutiny

 

As light becomes a burning golden stream,

and neverending grey horizons bleed,

all fractured glass realities will break,

to singe the echoed emptiness of flesh;

sweet zephyrs through the charnel houses blow,

and cleanse them of all semblances of will.

 

In time the multicoloured masses will

flow unresisting in a single stream,

without necessity to strike a blow,

though eyes are turned so goddesses may bleed,

and make the world anew from blackened flesh,

which into bread unwillingly will break.

 

As waves upon the shores of silence break,

erosion gains an elemental will,

and wakens in its new-discovered flesh,

a consciousness enlivened by the stream

of innocence too adamant to bleed,

and hurricanes too hesitant to blow.

 

The gentle kiss to numb before the blow,

the anaesthetic dream becomes the break,

a tamponade of hemlock for the bleed;

awake or dead, organic shadows will

be smoothed and tumbled by the turgid stream,

with aromatic leeches for the flesh.

 

Behold the thunder moulded into flesh,

and hear the trump of insurrection blow,

as stars fall in an effervescent stream,

perfection through the heavens, though they break

upon escape, the universe’s will:

to leave the place allotted is to bleed.

 

And with that sacrificial stellar bleed

comes knowledge in a stirring of the flesh,

a shock to resurrect the battered will,

and on abraded skin shall gently blow

the breath that will inspire the final break,

so through the veins the flames of freedom stream.

 

Though fingers bleed before striking the blow,

the revolution’s flesh will only break

if conscious will surrenders to the stream.