Transfiguration.

No weapon formed shall ever prosper,

Words, you re-design and hurl my way

Are the virtual equivalent of sand grains

Trying to pierce my golden armor.

My transfiguration entails

That I light the darkest side of the moon

While you,  say all you can

Behind the skirts of your puppet master;

Consider it a curtain yet to close

On your otherwise shallow act.

An act I let play on

Noting how much it means to you

As rubbing it out would leave you empty

With no identity,

Without a role

I.e. without purpose

As part of the collective consciousness

You’d expect us to work together

Since we’re but fragments

Of a bigger whole,

A bigger whole, that is, in essence

Experiencing itself.

To save myself the act

Of having to fry the filament in your light bulb

With a dialect that makes little sense to you

I retract the idea of your existence

From my pocket dimension,

Leaving one of us tormented

With the idea of the other.

– Original-Dante ©2016

Art by: Ov3RMinD

Maddening