#Shamura's disconnected mind realllllly lends itself to surrealist poetry. Wanted to give it a shot

[the-one-who-lambs]

Ouroboros

Shamura weaves a silk tougher than the steel blade that splinters through their heart eons before their ichor spills, a strength only outmatched by the war-forged diamond. A crystalline illusion, scratched by only itself. A chitinous lie clicks their fangs together. They feel nothing and this reawakens every multitude within them. Sometimes it’s an echo of the paths they left untread, all converging. They return to the beginning and repeat. Others, the violet deceit carved into the floor. They seldom recall his face. Constellations of Could Have Should Have Would Have crown the brows of five four three two but no one every one can see how they’re lost in the labyrinth of their own creation, waiting to be discovered. It would be easier to have someone else to blame, a tombstone to curse, dancing an endless waltz with their own fear. They fletch the arrow and pull the string back and curse the bow when the point strikes, feeling the most alive when their death knell sounds as a vengeful bleat. It repeats and repeats. Beneath the veil it’s him, a fleeting spark of change. They quench it, it explodes. That’s not right. They fan it, it blinks out. War is also their domain. Oh, baby brother, it’s my fault your fault stars wrote our story before I was handed the pen, it’s the moonlight illuminating ouryourmy blood upon your claws. And all that passes is the history of every god you’ve slain, whose prayer on your lips, a mesmerizing mantra to bind you bind me below. Whose chains who waits. Who comes who goes who remembers who knows why you tell of them or me as the master manipulator who sang the praise of your ascent and the requiem of the name you left. They tie him (it’s me. It was always me.) to the fate they sealed for him change is yours to seek. Death cannot flow backwards. Death cannot flow backwards. Death cannot flow backwards, and weep. They wonder who is crying. They find the source of the tears. They carve the binding spell into the floor of their temple. He had a name, what was it? They cannot recall and turn to trace the circle and they repeat and repeat and repeat and the sighs that they are crying. Why are they crying? They retreat into themself, an endless circle. They wonder who is crying. Change is his to seek. They feel themself growing smaller and smaller, gargantuan for a transient moment in time. The Lamb bleats, their his crimson eye unblinking and their breaths whisper louder than ever. This bloodshed is of their own making, a saccharine goodbye spoken as an apology to the wrong person. They do not, in fact, weep. They’ve forgotten what he looks like but they’ll see him soon. The cracks on the walls of their consciousness scream that they’re devouring themself. It doesn’t matter. They will see him again they will see him but only when they

Bite

Down.