I place myself high upon your pedestal;
An invasion of humanity.
It is there that I, the maniacal egoist, allow you to compose the chorus you
call “My Own”, though it is my desire to maintain the verse as nameless.
I dance at the incantation, twirling on the tip-toes of salvation,
Flicking my wrist at champions, and fluttering ever so gracefully over the
heads of my contenders.

It is here that I sing.
Not in harmony, mind you, but in rhapsodous delight nonetheless.
I sing to the Devil, for he taunts me with his prose; a feeble attempt to
gain jurisdiction over my form.
I scoff.
Then laugh.
Then sing once more, an etude;
For I, the brooding sinner, know all too well the path to the Valley of the
Shadow of Death.

I inquire to you, the ally at my feet, as I crouch to meet your gaze,
“If you open your mouth, will my voice be heard?”
You stiffen at the thought, but resist not as I steadily grasp your jaw
‘twixt forefinger and thumb,
Shaping your lips in an “O”,
As in “awe”.

It is now that from the deepest chambers of my throat a plump, guttural hum
develops, and I inhale all you inhibit.
So I hum to you, revealing my muse:
A myelomic orgasm of desire and tension,
An amputated charisma of the male gender who has managed to tangle my love
in the heart-strings of a painful passion,
One which even God must ponder over in his sleep.
As the breath from within exhales, I raise your chin and my voice alike.
I sing a simple lullaby,
One which holds true to name, for I do indeed lull you, dear ally, into a
state of manipulative slumber.

I, crouched still and reluctant to rise, sing now through you.
From out your lips I produce my song.
You sing, to me, of autonomy, of sovereignty, of a bleeding heart, which
lies in wait,
In wait of the body which harbors it, for the shell has yet to grow maturely
‘round bone and flesh.
And I sing, through you, a dirge, embracing mortality, accepting it, though
refusing its gentle tug on my sleeve.
But our song… no… my song, breaks a heart sting with it’s rigid contour, and
I droop over your dais: the minor fall.
It is here he sees the advantage, and Sir Lucifer,
Offended at my scoff, charges forward,
Knocking me from off the pedestal,
And into the shoes of a human being once more.
He worms his way forward, glaring at my soul,
Throwing my muse into agony.
I thrash on the floor, cold as stone, grasping with one hand at my chest,
The other at thin air.

But it is then that God ceases his pondering, plucking the purest white
feather from my wings.
I stiffen completely; my fingertips bleed marble.
The beast halts, and towards him I turn my head.
I part my lips,
And I sing my refrain, my redemption riding on my lament;
An ode to the shadow,
Which moves like a marionette in a somber chapel, whose pews are as faded as
my faith.
But your jaw is still fixed, though you slumber not, and you humble me with
your voice.
We sing, together, as one, fighting defeat.
At last,
Through chromatics and chords,
I sing my salvation

My song ceases, as does the devil,
And you pull me up from off the floor.
Ever so ignorantly, you, dear ally, offer your knee as a boost,
Back onto the pedestal;
Your pedestal.
And the incantation begins again:
The major lift.

 
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