A molten marble, the amygdala, like a neutron star in density, hotter than the sun, the third eye blinded by the radiating white-hot light, and should I somehow think a clear thought amidst that centrifocal gravity of hatred it shall be no more than the anticipation of my revenge, fists clenched like the claws of a crow perched on the ribcage of a corpse in a battlefield littered with the disemboweled dead, the head of Reason eyeless and the world itself an eviscerated wasteland. Ask me not to parley nor speak any words; such peace talks are the trifles which ignite the gunpowder and blacken the bitter battlements with cascading cannonades. Were I a mountain long gone quiet through eons of silence and solitude I would burst open with a hemorrhage of inundating lava and girdle Eden with a Pyrrhic victory, and be at peace, at long last, as all the magma-embosomed earth cooled alike to Mars, quiet, and still, forevermore.
Would that I could find that pacifying panacea, dumb beast that I am trampling clumsily through the Heal-alls and crushing underfoot the purification I seek so blindly, the fulsome fragrant flowers so close within reach were I but brave enough and sure enough for the spread-petaled trespass, but as the donkey with idiotic hooves I cannot clutch at this garden’s bounty, though caressed by Titania’s fond fingers and dying as a fool in the arbor of Love.
Through the cold, dead ages with nebulas aswarm, past long-agone stages and the cosmic dust storm, came a writhing terror within the wombed vacuum of a headless bearer, an amniotic bloom, its tentacles reaching, thrusting out through the Void, seeking, grasping, leaching from passing asteroid— not quite a parasite, no more than beast, or Man– feeding in endless night on any thing it can.