The Plight of The Echo Age

April 13, 2016

I built my city on the backs of dead men,

And mothers sobbed over tainted glories.

I cleansed the streets with gasoline and her tears,

Yet I stood alone in purgatory.

Angels laughed mockingly at my false halo.

They pity the imposter that I am.

For ebony snakes in the brush always strike,

But pacing wolves will never be a lamb.

I built my city on Satan's scathing flames,

And my bride's veil laid in desecration.

I whispered fruitless prayers in my agony,

Yet their God ignored my desperation.

Demons proudly taunted my decaying heart.

They scoffed at the hollow man I've become.

For I had once been fearsome to those foul souls,

But to her scornful glances I've succumbed.

I built my city on filth that won't abate,

And I danced amongst the breathing corpses.

I purged all thoughts of her divine radiance,

Yet mourned for her beside onyx horses.

My reflection grinned despite my wails of grief.

It ensured that I would lament in woe,

Till my tormented, stained heart ceases to beat,

Or till Jupiter's horizon erodes.

I bathed my city in nuclear blazes,

And I avenged the truth I had once known.

I was a faint whisper of a conqueror,

Yet I walked into God's cruel inferno.

My love came to me in a murky vision.

She swung from a dying olive tree's bough.

Looming ravens croaked in sickening delight,

And she glared as I mouthed a silent vow.

My love sauntered towards me with fair, outstretched hands.

Upon her head sat crown of gleaming thorns.

Her bloodied, polluted eyes seared into mine,

And I wept for the creature I adored.

I burn my city on the backs of dead men,

And mothers die for their tainted glories.

I infect ravaged streets with moonlit serpents,

And I stand alone in purgatory.

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