Blood on the Scrolls

At the breast of the mother of invention

I suckled from the teat of conviction

In truth, I sought more than sweetness

More than colostrum, rich in goodness

The foremilk and hindmilk to curb thirst

Full to the brim with nutrients to burst

Motherf-, are we all born to die

Motherf-, do we follow the lie

As I dine at the table of creativity

All I crave is pomp and ceremony

Egocrusher, the fight to see what I can be

Egocrusher, the battle from the lesser, me

As I crave due recognition of substance

And I reach out for more than sustenance

Profane and debased, my purity beyond trace

Dissonant and embraced, my revery beyond grace

The words and diction, the forthright conviction

Forced in, truth spoken, full on act of contrition

You never know what you know til you know what you know you never know what you know til you know you know you know know know know

no no no no weakness

no no no no sacred sanctification

as the breasts

of the grand mother of invention

suffocate the feeble

the strongest survive

and outlive the mother,

stripping her of

her ceremonial cloths

bathing in

her life-giving elixir,

dripping the crimson

on the scrolls

that will never

be forgiven

or forgotten

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: This came to me in a flash. You're welcome. Even rhymes in places!