Pagan Thaumaturgic Thanatopsis

I meditate over the illusion, solid rust-like atomic tangerine rocks inveterate on my souls surface reflect perfect contrasts off a twilight lavender ridge of rain. Night fades, Auroras elastic dawn looms overhead. Archaic stauro-phobia dominates my pagan dreams, apocalyptic images are buried thick with maggots and feed on my dead sparrowed-heart. Ribboned fingers that once held my futures bosom are now tightly wrapped around my souls wrists, messianic prophets bow stringed vernal strophes in polyphonic fugue, madrigals chant medieval odes to my desiccated aspirations, their dissonant noise lick my air dry. I sleep now, with one eye open as witness to impious tutelaries of death reborn. Marble Seraphs wearing wrecking bar scars lie abandoned at my door