These throws of rapture, kindly hands caress broken bones, hands that cut through parched soul like a sharpened stone. What is it that we leave in these fitting moments? Sentiment? These curtains fall and wrap us up in our rigor mortis, the nimble fingers of the black one, his majesty of cold, courting me into sweet abeyance. The malign steely touch of needle thorns massing and directing their gaze on my misfiring neurons. The vestiges of my sickening life, of my loves, my crowning glories, the pain and poetry of a spent existence. He coils up inside me now, kissing me and whispering sweet nothings. The words of release, the words I crave as I lose all, as the clotted mass of cumuli nimbus bows his head in salute. As i claw upwards, as i fall back into oblivion and his words speak out amongst the frightening turbulence, those final fleeting words i coax from his abhorrent throat. "Will you join my owsla?"

My brother be, calm amongst withered grain. Come join me, from life's ebb we shall refrain. Your failing eyes half blindly stare and glimpse this fevered face, valediction. You marked this earth with calloused hands, broke bread amongst your kin. Another haggard conquered pawn, a discarded volunteer. A husk with an idea of life, with eyes burning like fire, valediction. Cast aside these earthly woes, you wove this tapestry of battles. I'll pay you pittance for your days, yet loosen all your shackles. I am the seer in the dark, the vagabond of yore, valediction. I am the sum of all your parts, and proprietor of all. A miasma, the conclusion, blackmonger of Inlé, valediction. Synapses fray, my form now vivid, as torpor sets and blood grows tepid. With every ounce of flesh now offered, I hold your corpse within my coffers. Knitted cells now split asunder, stand alongside me brother. Take your place amongst my Owsla, we march at dawn now and forever. Cross your palms and acquiesce, take a bow as they ascend. Scent these grounds with your presence, ring the change of days now done.

We wane in remembrance, Drained by our scorn. The flocks of the patriarch throttled, Forlorn. We gasp with epiphany, Perception unmasked. Ranks of black muslin litter out path. Empyrian empties, On our woeful malaise, Engulfs and entwines our impious parade. These are the embers, The fetid ideal, The end of our chastity, Allow us to feel. Nerves remain tender, To touch makes us cry. We see through these windows now become eyes. Our burden is heavy, As we ascend. Like blemished flesh, The earth seems to rent. Pustules of faces, Mouths like crevasse, Our weathered coherence lost to morass. Our debts are paid to this epoch, Sanctimonious, No remorse. The king is dead! The king is dead! We bound his face! Cut off his head! We spit at thee, We curse at thee, The king is dead! Brothers and sisters, The king is dead! Cut him down, Flay his skin, Our god is dead! Courtisans! Compatriots! Lend me your ears, We slayed this demagogue, Dragged it to its knees. We cut all the sycophants, Deafened their call, We gave back the willing to better us all. We will not go quiet, We will not be restrained, We will not be slaves to an impotent regieme. Mark this in remembrance, The turning of tides. Our nascent republic, Born of (his) demise. The nativity! Our elegy! To this reform!

Like fingers they claw at the sky, pylons of a pompous foray. Sentinels to look down upon with vacant eyes. We kindle our willing to strive, to remain separate. A farewell to the spoils of fate, in shallow graves. We dig a hole deep in the earth, dig it deep to hide all our guilt. A trio of sarcophagi - triadic deceit. the quagmire could swallow whole, the black well of our malady, we grasp tight of offered hands, to stem the flow of defeat. We pick the bones cleans of their worth, whisper (sweet) nothings into empty warrens, mock prayers to revel within, who has seen better days? Zealots practice silent vigils, we turn out attention upon their axis, imitations inured with former glory, we ignore their remorse.

At the crux of our nation, the cornea dies. Spills out dissension, a barrage of cries. Written in looks and glanced rebellion, we gather these ugly wounds, weep words opposition. Tilled fields bare bitter fruit, tendrils like needles furrow and root. Clasped hands dig nails through skin and through wood, gouge out the terms of our parenthood. Those who would summon, to court these assumptions, to cut out the blemish of the idiot prince. The godhead resides within the welt of coercion, defiles the virtue of all our children. The accent of piety, the idiot prince. Pigheaded, exalted and guilty as sin. We no longer cower in his necrotic penumbra, the prophetic repugnance wore out long ago. the call is heard, the word is given, the throng descends upon his eminence. Attempted offerings, he weeps in his woe. The walls of his womb rock to an fro. We will come knocking, with baited breath, the scent of the apostate rife with repent. With icons dismantled, the firmament cleansed. We carve out new effigies and runes in the sand. Faces of kindred, faces of kind, the worship of kinship fuels starving minds. Where we lay, we will build. Though we may falter, we will build. The onus of power shifts in its cradle, the locks on the doors brittle, unable. We splinter the timber, stand over the general. The jabbering magnate, dethrowned and devoured. Dismember! Scour this mantle! We lingered far too long. Smelt the chains! Leave nothing unturned! We suffered far too long.

We can account for the scars in our sides, yet we are not privy to the thoughts that we discard. Those who would break us, nurture our despair. But still we cherish those who we revile. We take this battle in our fortitude, the war of will yet to be resolved. We broke the font from which we sup, bit hard upon the nape of our chaste and drew blood. Take refuge in our commune, orphans, staccato souls. Scrawled identities, captives of our consecration. Is this our dowry, the sorrow of our loss? Do we inflict our young with the horrors of our past? We use these imperfections as markers, vestige points. We have so much to gain, so little left to loose. Lay bare this soil, a marred ambit, borders bound by slick hraka. Towers of salt carve out tracks, cleaved in two by careless hands. The word is rife, the harbinger, it clings to us this Efrafa. Homba, Lendri and Yonil, it rises like vomit within us all. The weakening words spread out in ares, the urge to flee, cowardice engulfs. Our hands are raised in unison. Brandished tools, branded skin. Cut away, like so much meat, we forged new scars against ill repute, we hold on tight to one another. I am legion for we are many.