I feel words being written upon my rib cage. As I deeply breathe, heaving my sunken chest.
Spear splitting the cage exposing my innards and cutting my flesh. The blood and water pour
upon the ground giving the lowest a medium to paint with. Letting them attempt to create
the face of the creator. Leaving it up only to failure.
Write it in pen for soon it will fade. The beginnings of the dirt know only how to forget.
Write it in ink, don’t pierce the skin for the ink might stay. But dig deeply with the quill
drawing the blood. Let it run down my sides, and don’t mop it up. They’ve depleted their
mediums for creation.
It is in low supply. Let them gather the pints that spill and splash to the ground. Bottle it
and begin the collection of utensils to create with.
But I bid you understanding of exploitation and of your carelessness, that may manifest.
They will place labels on the bottles, place them in the hands of masses, and the false will
vomit out the ink on pages of disgust and deceit. The golden gates will be penetrated and
used as their billboards. But I encourage you, though your failure is the reason, to burn and
seer the flesh off the demons that possess the vessels. For the bodies are empty and have no
spirit. They will become rulers and leaders. Using the angel of light as their beauty.
But don’t be discouraged.