A poem about why being a martyr sucks.
My insides are leaking boiling fluid;
Its effervescent composition makes me feel lucid.
The singing mesh, spilling forth from a necrotic laceration;
The gaping orifice stigmatizing all those seeking divination.
Striving to be passive and lame;
My life is but a pawn of God in his game.
This is my test; something I can only lay myself to fault:
An impossible hurdle, too high to vault.
What caused my incessant pain?
Will there be any true gain?
From the tongue of Great Abaddon I have been delivered to martyrdom;
Driven by the lord’s chariot and bound by the bane of freedom.
The softened face of God looks down upon me in pity;
From His mouth come intoxicating promises of his heavenly city:
A veritable paradise forged from my own desire
Yet choked by weeds of lies and forgotten in a dreadful mire.
The watery grave of my idealism; a mere shard of the grand mirror,
Daintily dancing on the tongue of a sea terror.
The fangs snap shut
And I crawl back into a world of smut.
Angels and demons alike are calling my name;
Guiding me towards my beautiful ultimate aim.
To bring glory and fame to my divine kin?
Such a notion spreads a wide grin.
Yes, even in my defunct state,
Lavish lace still lingers on my finger tips, a devil-born bait.
Can you feel it?
The faces of my ancestors, wrinkled with cringes that spell pure abhorrence—
I relish in their unadulterated disdain;
For God has inscribed me in the book of life: a blessing denied for those so contemptibly vain.
They mock me and my dogged zeal;
And I, weak in heart, break my mind’s seal.
For I am crafted from flesh so meek and mild,
My faith a stillborn child.
Debilitated by the dissonance within my head;
From my pores, decades of falsified repentance bled.
I close my eyes for another wild dream;
And yet all I hear is my scream.
I stand justified alongside my brethren, mounted on stakes;
I will not crack, no matter how my body quakes.
I look down upon my form, an unrecognizable heap of flesh and bone;
From within me comes the psalms of a blinded drone.
In the final throes of death, I beheld the kingdom of God;
I have yet to earn my place; rotting underneath the boiling sun, I laud.