Icy domes and pleasure houses befitting Kublai Khan. Dens of pleasure where vices unravel.

 

Carried on a litter made of eagle talons.

Young man, they ask, what sort of dreams have you?
 
Day, you are the gross, misshappen companion to your cousin night.
 
I will traverse  the weird expanses of nightfall riding the wings of creatures fashioned by niether God nor Goya.
 
For reality is but a hashish dream, and dreams are but the truth gone untold.
 
Look below, and see the kicking legs of the Simoniacs in wretched fires.
 
See Cronos lap the last of his infants blood by the tears of Dante.
 
In this realm, viper thoughts creep upon me, and  coil about my mind,opening wide their fanged maw
 
I will be devoured, into the pits of their being, as the fires wait below.
 
Crimson fugitives invademy consciousness as fires crack and harpschcords play.
 
Teasing me with heaven and seducing me with hell.
 
Arriving now,for there is much to see.
 
"Speak to me", I cry, as the bells toll and I catch a glimpse of myself through the sceance mirror.
 
I have reached these lands of darkness divine.
 
Out of place in spectral time.
 
Yet, now I come awake.
 
I no longer know what I am. nay, who I am.
 
I am saddled rudley with banal human thoughts.
 
Though on it goes, lay in wait in this abyss
 
Till we join again
 
-on the other side
 
of perfect darkness.