Requiem : Darkened to The Witless
’Tis a spectacle of most dismal irony to witness the carrion-crow haunting the archives of the falcon. To hear "indifference" preached from such lips is a sepulchral jest, for the eye secretly haunteth the ink with a fevered obsession, peering at recondite runes with the blank stare of a beast. Knowledge remains a citadel barred to the unlettered; though the gaze devours the letters, the spirit remains famished, lacking the noble tongue to decode the very scorn it seeks to swallow.
What is vaunted as "radiance" is but a meretricious display, a harlotry of the soul that barters a gaze for a roof and a plate of meat. 'Tis a cheap commerce, where the body is but a coin offered to any hand that provideth a kennel for the night. There is an odious transparency in such a performance; 'tis not beauty, but a mendicant’s signal, an advertisement of a spirit for hire to the highest bidder of bread and bedding. To seek a "stage" in every doorway is the mark of a vagrant heart.
To have walked in such company is a stain upon the lineage, a sacrilege of the senses that now breedeth a cold, visceral shame. 'Tis a maledictive realization to know one once stood beside a pathological weaver of lies, a weaver whose threads are as brittle as they are foul. The air in the gallery is now shriven of her presence, yet the memory of that proximity lingers like the scent of decay beneath a floorboard.
Behold the curio of a woman who claims a throne while clinging to the dado like parasitic lichen to a carious wall. She is but a cipher scrawled in blood on a crumbling wall, convinced that her superficial sheen exempteth her from the worm's decree. The illiteracy of the heart matcheth the illiteracy of the mind; she stares at the sun of a sharp intellect and sees only a golden coin.
There is a sacrosanct quietude that descends when a fissured tintinnabulum is finally extirpated from the belfry. That cacophonous wail hath found a new habitation in a small, sequestered court of the unadept, a fiefdom of torpor and mendacity. Let her remain there, a ghost in a house of mirrors, seeking the warmth of a life she lacketh the virtue to sustain.
The welkin above the forge is now black and pure. While the vulture continues her tacit vigil over words she cannot comprehend, the true opus of the world proceeds in the meridian. Let her sit upon her perilous cornice, gazing upon a principality she lacketh the sagacity to marshal. There is a stark requital in the knowledge that when the great tempest of wyrd blows, the pathetic weaver shall be the first to meet the lithic floor.