ad Veritas
ex Nihilo
In my head rest the cradle and crypt of ten thousand gods.
In my breast pulse the passion and pyre of ten thousand devils.
Each voiceless visage decrying the next,
tearing sinew and soul, bone and breath, tendon and temper.
“Truth! Resign to me that right rectitude!”
resounds the relentless roar of this righteous rabble.
Truth? That thread-bare battered blanket that wants but little for warmth?
Enough to quiet the quivering breast,
yet murmurs disquiet.
Truth. Manifested from the Maker’s Mouth -
What need of me has truth?
So rage. Rage ye spirits!
All you saints and sinners!
You pious and profane!
Rage until all within me is ravaged and rendered as ruin.
Until in my chest remain but two — Lucifer and Michael;
until all that persists is this pitted pitied vessel
that carries on the battle — forged in misery, love, and truth
