14th century vulgarity permeates my being here, now, then, and always. A melodious pour of words from a distant sister defining the beauty in the carrion of a murdered prey. Where there is overwhelming horror and terror in the eyes of every beholder, I suck in the foul stench with every breath and savor the beauty in the saccharine undertones laced throughout this vital air.
Choking on the maggots already at my throat I push another empty day into my self imposed clarity. Basic primal urges drive me onward. Primitive survival instincts lay the foundation for my every pleasure seeking endeavor. Surrounded by decay, in vulgar Latin terms, by my own caronia, and by that of the world which surrounds me. Emotion is the only notion of knowledge I will ever own.
Like the death of each spring flower, wilting in the summers heat, blowing away with autumn's breeze, and waiting for new life under winter's frozen, heartless palm I am incapable of escaping this rotting sphere. Wanting to wouldn't alter my fate of awareness.
It's not meant to be beautiful, it's not meant to be warm, it's not meant to be anything, to DO anything. It's just my soul, and it just is. Singing. Shrieking. Expanding. Shrinking. Loving. Waiting. Accepting. Seeking... safety. Sweet Caronia in a world of the same.