Gospel and heretics..

A tribute to fortune, perhaps one which inspired my nature over time, ennealing my forehead to those that claim to be high poets, submitting myself to a higher degree of existence, would be a state of a generous ressurection, avlicial both to time and art.
I never knew who i was, nor hither nor anywhere, so that once i turn my consacrated and alleged dwellings, i will dissipate within the elongations of that precise time, my absence, complementary to a bacchantycal bliss and splendor, whilst the most terrible anguish would trigger. Not once i have wondered upon my sanity, if sanity is what they call it, this dormid despair of lethargy, misery and ephemeral truisms. I rejoindered as a child to close my eyes as the others layed within the most unfortunate coma and unconscience. I looked upon the churches of their deity, as a blind man chiselling the thighs of a morbid virgine. I found no live interest in such frivolish acts of imagination and helplessness. I know not who i am, but rather than a saint, i am decadent, an obtuary of my doings . So much to explain to you, and every time still i open this bloody window and trust my words in confidence that they shall burry my secrets and my legacy for you to discover them, doubt seeds itself beyond my convictions, and oblivion makes of despair, an ail for the wicked souls that may never find peace and rest, but when at last, before the midian retorts of nightfall and madness install, then, in one sublime and continuously ascending bliss of an embrace before tearing my poetry and watchthe roses wither. Just then i open my eyes...
Several times i have tried unsuccessfully to attend to my thoughts, but as soon as i knowledge such a fact, i immediately estrange my will, i suspend myself in an “untime”. Not that i am not inspired, but i seem to hold to a better remembrance of myself. For instance, now i have the same feeling as in a cold night, as i was crouching my being on a bench in Larissa, Greece. A vagrant, with a dark mantle, covering himself on a winters night, near a lake... People, speaking in a strange manner, which seconds ago i used to understand, then seemed uninteligible. I held my gaze upon the firmament, watching every shadow and incandescent craft of men, blistering over the surface of the lake. Echoes, emerging from all parts, me crouching more, the portrait of a pagan soul, excrcuciated in both tragedy and ridiculous. And what is there more agonizing for a poet than the ridiculous... His only expiation would be to become cynnycal. I closed my eyes then, thinking of the girl which named me that day a supernatural creature, a vampire, which never the less, was very amusing for that state of mind in which i had found myself at that time.
It would be unfair, both to me and you, to confess that i have depleted by some manner my ghosts... No, things remain yet to be spoken of... But i cannot spontaneously, and that is to be understood as a gauge of precaution, for i engage myself kneeling before my thorough existence. And i find myself to be an infant, contemplating from the edge of my existence, the cradles and vyllions of my seducing phantoms over time... And the beauteous tale of my unchristianizing doubts, would be the childblains of my ascensions... Soon afterwards i found myself in exhaustive oblivion, as the ancient gods stood besides me, bearing hunger and thirst, standing over the Vulg at a hoist of thousands of meters above ground, and still, at the perygeus of my soul. Darkness is much colder when solitary and suspended by the gallows of pilgrimage.... I slept for seven days upon Mount Olympus, a place of an absolute and obscure haze, if you manage to exceed conventions, dialects, idioms, truisms, and simply feel and viscerate yourself, there, in darkness, building your cenotaph.
Urging myself at every hour, regardless to daylight, never to abandon myself, to be in that strange afternoon, where i find my rest in the arms of thine, awaiting as if to find myself once, either upon a cross, or on those heathen lands, unknown by any human condition, or better yet, turned from any soul, within the shadows and meadows of my own hectic faith... Cruel goal for my disturbed sences. And still I hold for dear life as always...