a letter to myself for future pasts forgotten:
never let the light of day break a Winter's night.
never hold for ransom a child misbegotten.
never take for granted the gift of lack of sight.

never let the world go by while you stand here still
waiting for some hopeless dream, oddly flying through
as strange thoughts flutter by and often seek to kill
that which never lived before, and hide away what's true.

never let your loneliness hold your war scarred hand
and walk you through the Garden of treasures unfulfilled,
for only hate and apathy grow in that awful land.
never let your frozen heart bear those tears unchilled

which never fall for broken love, only rancid hate,
and wash away the sores of Truth, and take away your pain.
those tears which so eternally watch for naked Fate,
who dances freely beneath the stars, and capers in the rain

of true Death's immortal eyes, and sings of lonely passion,
who sees such things as mortals see, when they rot their ire
and turn to oddly shaped betweens and sing of bodies ashen
and dance for lost and empty masters for so cruel desire

as once afflicted you when dark cleanliness upheld
your life, your truth, your soul, your Hell, your prison of contrition
wherein so many of your dark and long lost demons dwelled
and tore apart your soul in the name of God's religion.

never cry up to the sky and pray for Death's demise.
no body's there to listen and less are there who care.
pray you never have to look your Destiny in the eyes
as She kneels before you and sheds Her skin so fair.

blood will fall like milk and honey on that day to come
when Angels fall from Heaven because they cannot stay
and suffer strange indignities in a dark Kingdom,
and never let them tell you that you must run away.

never let yourself wake up to find your fallen grace
for 'tis a false grace that you see, so cleverly disguised
behind a mask of Hell's deceit, a soft and lovely face
of horrible conceit, as my lovely Fate surmised

so long ago or yesterday, I can't remember why
my Mistress told me, hearken coldly to thus that I say:
once I built stone circles and walked across the sky
and done so many many things, as shall you one day.

Death is such a cold mistress, and Destiny is too
but both make for pleasant nights of so much loneliness
and Destiny, the virgin slut, will whisper unto you
to not forget her eternity and beg for things timeless.

and so my friend I write to you of future pasts forgotten
to tell you of sweet Destiny and remind you of Her skin
which smelled of scented tulips and chased away things rotten
and felt like eternal silk, while Death now lies therein.

09/20/2001

Posted on 09/20/2001
Copyright © 2024 Gary Hoffmann