The Blooming Portrait

O my face

If this is it

Than be it so

I

AM!

In the land of ages
Where skin is trade

Slaves pray naked on bed

I stand to the metaphor-

To be called a maid

I belong

Not made!

Call me a master’s piece

And I’ll sprinkle water on your eyes

To rain the thickness of the subjects

And be decomposed by scavengers.

The red blood in the whiteness of my breast

Is a beautiful truth of my existence.

History texts, “Humans replicate living,

Beings hail supremacy”

Ahh! My blood has poured an egg of vengeance.

He who shall be called: The Apocalypse

Will claim the beautiful form of existence with no mercy.

I, The Apocal

Your noble ruler,

Hereby born to eclipse lives.

Master, master, the humans cry.

We human race,

We poor race,

Can we selfish creatures,

 Be your taste.

I hate your origin

You dirty flesh.

(and there the apocalypse ate one and all
and remained with the unremains until his fall,
age got him on the web of death
and there the grass surged from his bed.)

Existence charmed…

And now it seemed

Will be equally made.