Alchemisland

Stabbing every clock I see, trying to kill time

I am half-digested stones masquerading as eaten infants

In a malicious god’s wafflepocket

Oh! The woes behold the sons and fathers

In their roles as opposites, at throats like foxes in famine

Why must we battle, what must we master – and fast – to avoid

Coming last, alas it is too late, we must await patiently with saint’s grace

Magma, lava and lakes of taken blood, slaking the dark one

His age two hundred and eight years long

Aeons in planning and plotting

To be sprung at a watch’s winding

A hidden page in the holy mystery’s novelisation

A lost station from the passion sequence

Which only initiatic churches depict

Alchemical edicts hidden in edifices

In pictures, in faces atop pillars.