My Blackest Arcadia

This is something I wrote a long, long time ago.

The Black Ball, my Black Arcadia. What can I say of thee?
Your battered, rusting rides, unwashed tents, they remind me so much of, well, mainly me.
Ha-ha, you and I, as it would seem, we have a classic, old-fashioned charm,
hiding truest natures, bringing about extremes: paradisal euphoria and purgatorial harm.
Are you more than a laceration on time or space? Perhaps it is one, but not the other.
I am nestled in your bosom, like a child unto its mother,
endless, yet the end for many-a-soul. It’s a shame there has to be so many,
though it may be best to rid them of my lunacy.
You are a constant unto variables, the condemnation for sin, a bother to those without.
About it, they can whine, they can even pout,
and they will. Sentient creatures are all the same, 
in any place one wanders, through this or the next plane.
You should know; you have been to them all.
One fact remains true: I am to serve you, to clean your bloodstained walls.

Author's Note

I've received mixed reviews about this poem, mixed reviews I'm proud of. I love being called "pretentious", really, I do. This isn't sarcasm, I adore it. :P

Reviews

[Jerome]

I likethis, it has a good feel to it. I like the bounce between humble and a mocking tone that the speaker carries. It shows a glimpse into a complex relationship or feeling, and I love the ending line "I am to serve you, to clean your bloodstained walls". A chilling close, and I like it.

It does seem somewhat unpolished, with a little work on form this could really shine.