Poem: The Charnel Messiah– Verse 4.

Dread surges like the sea
and forms in my interior
inch by sordid inch, it conquers
my terrain, it ravishes
laying waste to this veldt I wasn’t born of
bit by bloody bit I feel it
reclaiming the swamp I’m bound
to languish in,
for, hell is other people
and my hell is bound to be me.

Here, in this fluid darkness,
I whelp with unfinishable sighs
birthing this wretched infinite thing,
I will become—eventually
if only I can wrench myself
out of me, with the deft
forceps of unpardonable hope—
for, like all virtue, hope is futile here,
Hope is hopeless.

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