Artigiano

Oft I flew as an artigiano over turbid and stern feelings, Blowing hard into alpenhorn to shake the mountains built to protect, Pale-hued gems, aneurysms of loving, resisted the temptation, They malignantly affected me, as my twaddle does when it dazzles in twilight. Fustian echoes from the distance cascade down the hill of sadness, I feel the bubble surrounding me in a sphere like trap, And more, much more, I feel haughty darkness, a painful agony Of life suffused across every epoch, swinging and punching, With fathering force, so damaging, and yet so becharming, that It’s hard to resist not to prolong the agony or living. Bound to cross the final line, Bound to gaze what is beyond, Bound to share the girth of young and old, Bound to drown in the eternal pond. Oft I killed my raylet of hope, wondrous flukes and bluffs, Submerging myself into the vortex beneath, Deep, deep abyss of unknown, dark and cold, Devious depths where loneliness carves out its signature, And, where orphaned grief strikes swiftly, as a bolt. It’s spiralling me down into the gut of drama and intrigue, The divine emptiness of Dionysus’ ecstasy and revelry of doom, I await the hovering hammer, from the above, wanting To exit this realm of stasis, as I feel being toyed, Bring it on! For the victory, or let me be destroyed.