Ophidian Upon the Coast

When nights fall short, with no angels at court,
And evening lights and lively chatters lack most.
A quiet fickle of interest echoes from the Mistress,
While the Master’s speaking with glee and boasts,
Like men of myth told with glee and boasts.
And with no less or greater, rings the coast.

In a chamber’s haven, a boy stands with graven,
With a question long forbidden, lingers without dose.
This tale with no favorable end, a role not just pretend.
‘Tell me...’, the boy called, ‘What matters most?
Comfort me of what comes to claim what matters most?’
Silence follows close by, a void upon the coast.

Ruthlessly fell the shutter, follows he an angry mutter,
‘Why not answer me? Must the request begin with toast?
This is cruel, the torment, must this be my punishment?’
Soon he, a witness to beast over feast, an act bound to gross,
Then a sight of unfortunate disgust, an act bound to gross,
This was the journey trampled by trillions, a term to most.

This nuisance it shows to be, was this journey chose?
While it is precise, the conclusion is not worthy of boast,
Limited and flawed, the pages would always be clawed.
Inventions wouldn’t be praised, just an ‘subject’ to most,
And one’s painful progress, just another ‘subject’ to most.
The seas splinter and the sand shifts along the coast.

The dim sky starts leaking, the walls begin creaking,
The sound of thunder roars as clouds gather northernmost.
‘What summons the storm, does one decided the sky be torn?’
The deafening cries, the devastating crashes tattered the post.
The wraith was divine, but soon fades what tattered the post,
And with sudden release, the tempest ends above the coast.

The heavens soon lighten, but lacks little to none delightment,
The sound of knives against stone was too faint to diagnose,
But loud and clear as midnight fueled the buttress of fear.
An iris, gold as it can deceive, no deal needed not even a toast,
An loathing emerald imply with no deal needed not even a toast,
And so then, spawns a sigil upon the floor like a vengeful ghost.

The being upon not receiving, one who’s relieving, yet deceiving,
Enters with pride, wrath, and greed, the ones that seeths the most,
Shows that this journey was a dread with the only cure being dead.
The boy gasps, ‘What foul fiend of once greatness enters without host?
Does one come invited or dreaded calls for entrance without host?’
Soon replies the slim yet grim with no limb, ‘Infinitely almost...’

Does this serpent speak with credibility, or am I fooled from sanity,
My ears be playing, they could hear miles away a desperate boast,
Yet this feeling unlike any other gave no illusion as if not to bother.
The viridian being eyes and coils, so haunting a spectre or ghost,
But it isn’t, its heart like its venom beats so, unlike spectre or ghost.
And following so, with hood unfold and, ‘Infinitely almost...’

‘Why do you come to me so meek, do you have part in what I seek?’
So he replies to little more than silence, upon the midnight coast.
‘Creature of rebirth and mystery, do you give advice dated from history?
Truly I marvel, all entities manifest much more, it’s the rule of host.
But your presence, may I ask, who are you?’, departing the rule of host.
The plates now crawl and namelessly said, ‘Infinitely almost...’

This particular beast foretold, this phrase now behold,
This unyielding Oracle from the caves of Delphi’s coast,
This spirit of scales, reminiscent of one who bites its tail,
Now bound in chains for maiden’s temptations to be dosed,
‘You, angel, now persuade the temptations to be dosed,
Comes to seize mere mortal with thus, ‘Infinitely almost…’

‘Pointless, some reptile who comes with silence and smile,
Why do you come with void, come with little most?
I seek answers life impose and you come to oppose,
No more I shall take, rational or not, leave no ghost,
This realm needs not you, so now, leave no ghost,
The serpent continues to taunt and test, ‘Infinitely almost…’

This coiling mass of discord brings more question than called for,
This frustration so ripe with hatred for one so morose.
I asked too much with despair, but bargaining wasn’t always fair,
Now should I befall to solitude and somberness off one’s riposte,
Or should this be it, a chapter closing with this one’s riposte,
And defeated I am to mutter in agreement, ‘Infinitely almost…’

While with similarities, no shock or drift of contact of this entity,
Did I fail to capture the view of perspective through such dose?
The eyes glowed with urge and sadness and truth emerge.
For I be fooled this being was pure, now I burn as if under arkose,
And this guilt of curiosity no more unveiled, I burn as if under arkose,
With all aligned in agony, ‘Infinitely almost, fell the name of Roese.’