Feryiuo

It is no circumstance beyond mine mortal control, sum magnificent dream, sum distant spire, sum far mountain range where the brave batter another foothold on a sheer face of an incomprehensible crystalline Diamond which reflects the snow and super massive hailstones that are like rocks smashing on a face which is numbed and the struggle is diminished, a last strength is failing, and leans from the side holding on with one are, swaying, at this moment – fervidity..

Collapsing unto wards sum other thing, beneath and below, cavities dark and cancerous looming from the horizon, desiccating, disseminating the malign influence of the free jugular coniferous, constant, time is nothing but bad memories of what you wanted your dreams to be, an living in the past is like looking through a looking glass, especially if your smashed. Dashed I was, and crass besides, minds you, I felt sum thing extraordinary once, it was the purest disbelief, a fantastic contrarious insignificant perusal of the didactic relativity of sum indicative opinion is.

It is a beautiful thing to sing in the moonlight when your are fucked, to dance, or I prefer to sit because I am very fucking lazy and that’s a god thing, and I hope you all get shin splints, not even that but worse, sum sing in the moonlight, the light is too bright, too stupendously dazzling and confusing, yet sum how sum thing felt just right, like flight the penguin was incapable, dastardly and scheming about anything that even looked like it

Hearts and Spades, jacks and Aces, a fool’s luck is sacrifice for honour, is a replacement for dignity, for a morale compass, a decision is a void thing, and what the fuck do I know, just sum beautiful thing, sum beautiful thing to fill my time and day rather than this, what pain is the toil, and what is rain next to a river, water.

 Agony would be welcomed in all lives,

It makes everything seem better much afterwards,

Like sharp and silver piercing knives,

Here come the brutal self-redeeming indigo bastards.

All are cast once as willing thieves,

Then years later and honest and stand bearing the noble standards,

No judgement on any true beliefs, once won,

All things are bright and beautiful under the Grandstands and garlands

No Hell for any thought of sin for all are tempted,

Such is the beautiful thing which is lust,

No greater earthly delight than ever in your darkest you truly dreamt,

All will be yours for you are nought but dust,

They shall worship your elegant ornate bust,

When years from now Grande’ Victoria is Augustus

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No fate lies beyond the cruel grasp of mortal frailty—a vision vast and terrible, a spire shrouded in eternal shadow, a distant mountain range where desperate souls claw with bloodied nails upon the jagged face of an unknowable crystalline monolith. That frozen altar, a remorseless sentinel, reflects a tempest of bitter snow and monstrous hailstones, each like shattered bones cast from the heavens, hammering flesh and spirit until numbness devours the soul whole. The last fragile thread of strength trembles; a solitary arm clings to the abyssal ledge, swaying like a candle guttering against the suffocating winds of fervid torment.

To fall—down, down through realms forgotten—into a cavernous void blackened and festering like a wound beneath the earth’s ancient breast, a malignant rot that seeps forth like poison from the horizon’s bleeding edge. This desolation spreads, a creeping plague that strangles life and hope, bleeding the free conifers dry as if from a cursed jugular vein. Time becomes a cruel mockery, a gallery of shattered dreams glimpsed through fractured glass—especially when the mind lies broken, betrayed by its own fragile reveries.

I was dashed, fractured, and crass—yet within that ruin stirred a flicker, an extraordinary spark of wild disbelief, a spectral whisper challenging the cruel edicts of reason and the iron law of certainty.

There is a terrible and terrible beauty in singing beneath the moon’s cold, pitiless gaze when one is undone, ravaged by the relentless night. To dance? No. I choose to sit, heavy with sloth—a blessed lethargy amid the ruin. May you all suffer the slow, gnawing torment of shin splints, or worse still. To sing beneath such blinding moonlight—so cruelly brilliant, maddeningly dazzling—yet still, some fragment feels just right, like flight itself, that cursed grace denied even to the flightless penguin, a scheming shadow stalking the edge of reason.

Hearts and spades, jacks and aces—fortune’s cruel jest is sacrifice for honor, a hollow relic where dignity once stood, a fractured compass lost in tangled darkness. Decisions dissolve into the void; what do I know? Only this: some dark, beautiful thing to fill the aching void of these hours, a fleeting balm against the ceaseless toil of existence. Pain is a welcome guest in every life—for through its jagged blades one glimpses a strange salvation, like silver knives piercing the black flesh of night.

Here come the brutal, self-redeeming indigo bastards—
Once thieves in the dark,
Now standing, worn and bloodied, bearing tattered standards that bleed forgotten glory.
No judgment falls upon beliefs forged in fire and shadow—
All things burn bright beneath grandstands draped in withered garlands and whispered curses.

No Hell awaits the tempted soul; all are condemned to desire and ruin.
Such is the cruel and exquisite grace of lust—
No earthly delight surpasses the fevered dream spun in the darkest hours.
All shall be yours, for you are but dust and shadow,
They shall worship the ornate ruin of your visage, a relic of forgotten grandeur.

And through the desolate halls of memory,
Spectral figures linger—whispering echoes of those long dead,
Phantom hands reaching from the darkness, brushing cold against your fevered skin,
Their mournful wails woven into the cold night wind, a dirge of forgotten promises.

And when the years have crumbled into ash and silence,
Grande Victoria shall be reborn, whispered once again as Augustus,
A ghostly monarch reigning over ruins that time forgot.