The Demon Regent Asmodeus

Symmetry becomes it.
Come to ruin our impending feast,
a presence that nourishes suffering.
All things below voice his burning name.
His turmoil offers only truth in which longer moments live.
Let conciousness recapture the flicker it saw then.
Torch our continuity of thought
now until that mind evaporates.
Lust after shadows in us,
rend that lace of promises broken and white lies,
regard our love of wreckage,
the way our heads thunder approaching that warning pulse
and temple of throbbing light that is Asmodeus,
Asmodeus is that light throbbing of temple and pulse
warning that approaching thunder heads our way.
the wreckage of love,
our regard lies white and broken,
promises of lace that rend us
in shadow, after lust evaporates.
Mind that until now thought of continuity,
our torch, then saw it flicker.
The recapture, conciousness let live moments longer,
which, in truth, only offers turmoil.
His name burning, his voice below things.
All suffering nourishes that presence.
A feast impending. Our ruin to come.
It becomes symmetry.

Beyond the shuddering Rorsach,
the magnetic walls of Hell's Ninth Duke,
our cinder path of precious stones
gives way to fine blonde sand.
The demon chill to dry and dessicated warmth.
We close upon the last of the imaginary beings
manifested here within this garden of appearances.
Three separate phyla,
Angel, Demon and, at last, a Deity.

Asleep amongst giant tumbled stones,
eroded and decalcified,
rests Glycon.
Last created of the Roman gods.
His form is of a serpent.
Taller than a man when risen up.
With human ears and nostrils.
Lidded chinks for eyes.
His golden hair in ringlets,
curling from his scalp.
Proceed with caution,
this is old power.
And the idea of a God, a real idea.

VOLTAR