grain shadow

I crave destruction;
It’s not some romanticized fiction
Or noble venture brimming with sentiment.
Because of everything that’s conspired against me—
Governments, family, a chastised world—
I pine for the end.
Within this sanctuary I have etched
There exists no morality,
Only a rage beget by injustice;
And on this altar of ire
I sacrifice in no one’s name,
Because sacrifice—
The artistic method of suffering—
Needs no purpose beyond its own existence.
With that hideous strength I wield,
Surprising even to myself,
I cast dominion over the puerile
And advance my personal army
Until grass turns to dirt under boot.
Even should there be no nation left to conquer
I will wage war still,
Whether upon myself or the gods above,
To prove my own liberation
From all but bloodlust,
A carnal craving for penance,
An unyielding covet for destruction.


The Child Who Wore Majora’s Mask

Majora's Mask

I am that child:
The one under the tree
Who does not play, does not congregate.
I am the one in the mask
Whose only friend is solitude,
And whose armament is introversion.

There is no evil in these eyes,
Only a reflection of life;
Not the kind a person relishes,
But one repudiated and avoided,
Search for that game to play
Or that villain to triumph over.

Fierce is the deity
That has brought me to my knees.
Godless are they
Who defiled my friendship;
Giants they seem among my meekness,
But as ants they’ll fall beneath my catastrophe!

What I have wrought on this world
Is not death, but merely my experience;
For why should others revel
Where I weep and gnash my teeth?
Why would I permit others joy
When I have inherited the power to inflict suffering?