Death is my Religion
Death is my sacred Mother
Death is the vehicle by which my soul traverses the heavens
She is no macabre fancy
But a perfumed blossom
When I was a boy
I dreamed of a rotting woman in an upper room
She would beckon with her will
And I’d enter first the parlor
Then ascend the stair
There she lay on her sick bed
Eyes fierce
Matronly
Nurture and discipline at once
All would fade to such black terror
Such abysmall emptiness
So complete
It sucked the heart from the breast
The heart from the heart
All chambers collapsed
But then in the charnel stench of decay
A bright light glimmers
And I become a raging fire
Her stygian embrace was but soil
From which my sappling oak would spring
So I do not fear
But worship
For when I go to ground
I enter through the womb again
To return to father’s house
For the sun is spread throughout
In billion upon billion glimmers
And there I go
To hang
Till again
The ground it calls to worship
And births a nation
I the man
Have but one rite
The worship
Of the mother
Night
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The Fractal Journal 