Elysia | DISCONTINUED

T H E . P U R E

for e. s.

the Pure are beasts set in gilded gold,

flowered silks, and delicate marionettes.

of right and wrong tuned to decrepit and dead instruments.

they are the disfigured brainchildren of

single-mindedness and ruthlessness,

of mistakes stamped out and eradicated by genocide.

and i am Pure. mottled with coats of barbed wire

and shining teeth dirtier than the blackest night,

i am the crowned hero of a world you cannot see or touch.

i am the winner of a game with evil requisites

set to be lost.

the Pure are my brethren, cut out of the same flesh

as i am. because that is the only way in which

i should ever acknowledge a life.

however much the odds are with you

one fateful card that holds your death in its palm

glides through the doors.

the ticket of entry to this heaven is the demise

of me. i stand before the scales

of justice and penitence

and i cry out for the Pure.

behold.

the Pure descend and i am blinded by the beauty

of an abstract, fleeting whisper of

all things insane,

born of the splitting cacophony and uneasy transition.

i rear my head and set the world

to the beat of a drowning pulse of internalized

hatred and murderous tendencies.

i paint the sheep with merciless notes of

terror and the unending breath,

that which the impure call rewriting.

only that i do not rewrite,

but that i override what was once there in its place.

i pin my words on a base of malleable gold dressed

like tungsten and everything lasting,

the Pure flocking to my will.

and i relish in

the solidarity of adversarial eras.

when this halo flickers,

i can make an enemy of

what is impure.

i bear witness to the ascendancy of all things

correct, accepted, and proper,

for the Pure are the only everlasting fallacies

of regimes lost.