My Child, My Child, Leave My Soul Not Defiled

The seductive bitch of ideality,
Has given birth to a bastard son,
To our curse and our demon,
Our child of idle-ty.
He haunts us from the inside out,
Knowing our veins’ secret passageways,
Smothering us in listless sleep with our old comforts,
Our used-to-be wishes.
Our dreams are woven into the stuff of nightmares,
Crafted by our own hands,
Moving at a sloth’s speed,
Running out of control,
Out of sight of our awareness,
Distracted by neon signs pointing us to all the different whorehouses,
Where Lucifer herself whispers in our ears our eternal, base desire:
“You are special”.
Our aural climax brings peace of oblivion;
Our placebo full-ness serves a receipt,
For the abortion twenty years late.
Our certainty seduces us to safe slumber,
Without fear of the future,
With only time to remind us,
Through cold-sweat awakenings,
That paralytic progeny awaits in the shadows of tomorrow’s sunrise.

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