Ode to the Demon of War

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Virgin to life, whore of the underworld.
Donned once with beauty,
Consumed now by carnality;
Deplete me of that which me makes human.

May your hand reach to my soul;
Poise it and torment it,
Lash it with the whip of your antipathy.
May the tendrils of anger reach deep to my mind,
Suffocate it with taint.
May it feel your wrath,
And your corruption;
So it may never forget the voice of beauty’s sorrow.

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Nothing

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I, the most perfect syllable in the world.
It encapsulates me and all that is mine
And all that I perceive or have perceived,
All that I encountered or experienced, the
Totality of my existence and its meaning
To me and the ripples of its influence, little
Or large, on the world around it, completely
Ensconced within this one tiny utterance
That takes a fragment of a moment to
Attain its meaning in its full complexity
That mocks at any naive attempt on the
Part of the “Categorizers” to encumber it
With a fixed definition or to decipher its
Ever variable, ever evolving, ever fluid
Semantics. Definition may bring solace
To the rationalists, but it brings not Truth.

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