Netcees - Organ failure

Viewed at large for not my benevolence, but the omen traits
I took on as I peered into my soulmate's face
Those eyes I fell in love with, showed me a lonely place
Away from the Ouroboros, the Magnus opus of the snake
That circulates and gives this world its shape,
Away from the Ouroboros, are the hallways of pandemonium's estate
Each one leading to a small room with a claustrophobic space
With a soulless mage awaiting to show you the serpent's tail
And at the moment,
You learn to tell when not to look into a person's hell, their nervous spells,
Earthly tales are excuses to assert ourselves as heroes to those averse to help.

I'm a dreamer wanting to fly on nimbus in an open space
To hell with order & power, the crux of what Napoleon craved
I live for propriety, a master Confucian with ceremonial slaves
Upholding perfect colloquial grace when escorting social guests
Even through the parochial phase expected from colonial men
Barbarians who came to haggle and spread their microbial plague
Yet, even in my sincerity heaven has closed its gates
All knowing, it heard of our infamous opium raves
Where the pugnacious lost all control with shame
Drew their swords, pointing & thrusting them into the holy saints.
But, I heard from a centaur there’s an alternate code we may enter
If only I remembered… I try, and I try, but everything been dismembered
My memory center has too many pathology splinters. Psychology symbols.
My apologies simpleton, we sinners carry whole cursed anthologies in us
Our biology encrypted with knowledge afflictions
In addition, to countless chronic addictions, narcotic nutrition
Unkind psychotic condition driving my every moronic decision
So as to, maintain the euphoric visions of the godlike children
Who serve as my companions in this Utopian kingdom
Where I get to play rock, paper, or scissors with other dope fiend victims
Completely at peace, until we’re all bombarded by Soviet missiles
That’s when I wake up from a near overdose in sniffles
That’s what happens when opium crystals have ammonium mixed in.
Chemical snowflakes containing the primordial ether
Along with Ragnarok, the behemoth force that leaves mortals screaming
Those long gone can still be heard in distorted whispers
Softly speaking the source of meaning, we're moral creatures
Endowed with the task of carrying their spirits
In our hearts and minds, a paranoid sickness
Giving me trances deeper than séances of fortune readers
Charlatans, who take the ace of spades as their immortal scripture,
Treating occultism as the medium that stores their secrets;
Sins created from their own lives, their story's linear sequence
It's heartbreaking when the filius philosophorum seeks for evil
Dousing his genome, until his spiking the most blissful fever
Once the soul really weakened, organ failure doesn't feel so lethal.