The Deluge

Rend of the veil of uncertainty, soul enraptured in ecstatic misery. Marry yourself to the untying of your birth. Linger not at the foot of Jehovah’s alter, with fools drunk from the blood of the false prophet. Give instead your graces to the Supreme Hierophant. Adorn his fawn skin with your blood. So tired is he who asks all the while to his death why he must live. Fear not your placelessness, for you have always been a stranger to this world. The death knell will ring all the while, giving you a pace with which to walk. Forever on, always to the next grazing pasture. So long as you are alone, aligned with the moonlight in the flicker of Neptune’s luster, you are never mistaken. Rend the veil of selfhood. The most laughable entity, a farce married to the untying of your death. ‘I’ is a mirage created in a delusion of grandeur. Wounds are sought in knowing. Where this pain lies, truth follows. Somatic deprecation is the calcification of the will. That which is broken becomes everything. The body decays and becomes the Earth. Death is welcomed, not to be dead, but to feel the Self dying. To cleanse the idea of self with the deluge of blood from flesh. This is the rebirth through pain, in which we embrace the sensuality of nothingness.