Sinful Pleasures

The clash of two night blades sounds over the echoes of the abyss that surrounds them, through the cornea and to the stem, off of the lobes and down the dopamine streams ferverently running these two beings collide, rallying cries can be heard from afar, despite their violent frequencies they stand from afar and refuse to participate, resolving to rather egg one or the other fighter on in their gladiatorial carnage, slash here, nick there, bash over hither and a smash over thither the evenly matched forces of nature clash in a never ending battle to capture the subconscious. One born through tradition of sitting, thinking, reading, testing, proving, and believing, that although the origin of this universe is indeed a mystery to my undeserving eyes that morality is there and must be protected like a mother protecting her lone child. As forces of the dark surround the light so too I resolved to stand as a beacon of hope and just as much a source of joy. However a stab in the back and a swing of a hammer my body did fall, but from it rose not the calm indifference of pacifism, but the chortling mass of cruelty sprung from the primal reaches of my brain, the monster surged and swirled from my being, smashing down my enemies with ease, their blood staining my claws as I laughed gayly for finally I was making a change in this damned world, upon looking on the horizon I saw fellow beasts of war, smashing down the enemies of yonder armies be them guilty or innocent, they laughed happily when they saw my bulk joined to their side and they gave me stares of admiration for breaking free of the bonds of purity. So my spirit had flipped from the humble and quiet to the obnoxious and loud, be it for the good possibly personal or societal I fought endlessly, more crowds appearing on the skyline like hellfire raining from above, the more I slashed and stabbed, the more I enjoyed such sick pleasures like a cat learning to kill I craved more and fought more opponents, harder and colder spirits, accompanied by sturdier mounts, that I knew I had to test my limits to defeat. Despite this I felt my soul become hollow, the ruckus of battle echoed slowly into my spirit as nothing but the landscape of a war battered field had been left, trees reduced to charred timber and castles reduced to quarries. My hands now roughened by the scars of battle and my mind wizened but bitter like a pot of tea set too long to brew I sat now and pondered. The battle had become my life and my brethren around me as well, how can I change what has given me meaning for in return what I cannot guarantee exists? Will my karmic reward if such things exist be worth more than the orgasmic pleasure of combat? May my swords be hammered into plows when all they long to do is to pierce the armor of the enemy? May God see me as a man of decency and piety if I turn my blade for him against the forces of evil? And if so will that service cure me of my lust for combat, my lust for domination? Is this above all else in my life, my sinful redemption?

This poem is about: 
Me

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