by kholinar

The portrait of any darkness, like so many other things in art, is easy to begin, but daunting to perfect. This is as close to a beginning as I can conjure.

Pieces juxtaposed, unfurled chaos
rests, like care-worn garments
We renounce our trepidation and
become berserkers proud

Elegance in injury,
a bloodless hand of rage;
The hall and court of Malice
uncovered may ascend…

There forgiveness is only served
to the hands that judge too harsh
to the Whip of desolation
to the mind our madness bakes in
to the knife that calls oblivion
to the lamb who sits and waits
to our sisters, self-made djinn
to the still-born, to the aged