It is the poetry of primeval instincts, written in elegant, serpentine prose; a flowing cadence of words, from the barbed tip of your thorny quill; a quill immersed, and thereby baptized as it were, in the fateful inkwell; the quill’s tip wetted as it plunges into the blackest ink of the blood of blasphemy and taboo.
Your contemplations, uninhibited and shameless, pour out as unexpurgated thoughts, being expressed in verses of palpable poetry; and your prose is excruciatingly engraved into the parchment of my mind—written in that black ink of thantos; ink that is permanent, like the eternal stillness of death.
Poetry, perilous yet hypnotic, like a primordial, ritualistic, chant; your verses like the incantations of self-sacrificing natives; fearful and confused minds, all worshiping primeval instinct.
Rituals of ancient mantras uttered to summon the demon of that tormenting paradox; the paradox of the deep-rooted human obsession that baffles logic. The obsession when Eros hungers for Thantos; this is a seemingly ironic, yet universally extant emotional state.
A state of craving in which our eyes desire seeing blooming flowers of passion and new life; yet at the same time, our eyes crave to look upon death and decay, wanting to see fleeting human artifacts, like the eyeless skulls, left for the slugs, and those many other ugly things, which feed upon their insides.
And I hear all of your poetry as a beautiful song, both mellifluous and horrifying. It is music to me much like the sirens songs, which lured sailors’ to steer their ships into the jagged rocks of terror and death; and I am torn in terrible ambivalence and confusion, when I feel the exquisite ecstasy of pain as your quill’s ink, like poison, coarse through the blood of my veins.