Treasure Island

Daegal

(16.03.89 / Doncaster, England)

Argos And Aversion


The red condemnèd plains
Which line Homeric Greece
Stretch out into the distance,
Beneath a sun obese.

I, a priest of wrath,
Stand still with knife in hand,
Behind my golden mask,
I gaze across the land.

A ritual of children,
Five hundred in the fray,
Winding out so hazy,
In the blistering heat of day.

With a strange precision,
I slice from throat to gut,
I snip and tear the entrails
And cast them at my foot

I’m lined by two more men,
Both are priests as well,
They oversee the ritual
Unmoving at the smell.

For some God or other,
I cast the blood about,
Growing more uneasy,
Growing less and less stout.

Nausea closes quickly,
I start to feel uneasy,
Green sweat trickles down me,
This act has made me queasy.

And then my mask does slip,
The other priests turn to me,
Seeing my sick features
Advance against my plea.

They tear the blade away,
And I begin to quake,
Their masks are filled with bloodlust,
And then, I simply wake.

End.

Submitted: Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Edited: Tuesday, October 19, 2010

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  • Daniel Roxburgh (10/17/2006 11:16:00 AM)

    All in all, this is a fantastic write. The imagery is excellent. I felt I was standing there on the hill right beside the priest. Ah, but then...I awoke. Very nicely done. I enjoyed reading this.

    -Daniel (Report) Reply

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