What did the Old Ones say about the Birds in the early Sun? Red Rays, of phosphorescent Gaslights. The Old carry truth like burdens on a heavy mind. Black smudges surrendering across blue skies. The first awake must sow the seed so the Sick may rest their worried bones.
Upon awakening, I implore within, To the ancient spirit, Pleading unto her glory, “Arrive, Old Holy One, and Claim the Youth From my life, Such as though to be reborn, ultimately Through You.”
What is this divine repose? Within its winds, a whisper to concede against the steady Night. What is this sacrilegious truth? Slowly She reveals We are not meant to save the world but destroy it. Archetypical destruction of our once immoral nature. Arrive, Old One, Alas, In solidarity, I have found you.
I continue searching amongst ruin for a code Buried deep beneath my Being.
The first awake sees the day, A witness of divine casualty. God feels no shame in taking from my pocket. The first awake to lose the race. As though it were only ever the Early Birds who got the worm. As though a Night Owl Couldn’t close its eyes and escape its muck. Those who share these thoughtless Nights, Escape through retrograde into its Day.
Nefarious addicts
Dwelling from top floor apartment complexes,
A synchronized hunch besets their frames
In circles gathered, contorted bodies
prying open healed wounds.
Rumor has it, they choose to be
Closer to the top in case
these windows of mind
Rupture, exposing them to
a cataclysm
of nothingness.
What we seek, must seek too.
Inwardly it spirals my blood
In backwards motion, bleeding me dry.
I exist within only to instigate reaction,
my veins are jagged against the cross,
rivers run dry, what rhythms exists, if any,
in abyss?
there the pendulum swings too closely
on rare occasions I find it swinging
next to my heart, butterflies pulled into the gravity of each swing
it misses the nape.
blossoming reds fall along the way, floating atop the surface of the seamless dimensions we feel.
Temporary oceans flood my memory,
A vacuum of space consumes me now, in thought.
I strafe against the urge to jump from
Greater Heights still.
Although I would yet to be remembered,
what a profound idea, that is,
of a consciousness haunted by the very aspect of its own image,
the shadow urging its physical body, to
comply to natural reasoning,
the devil dances again.
The time draws near.
The void prevails.
What we seek, must seek too.
There are very few currents of the Oceans tide
I remember.
The part of me that would wilfully watch
As I sink below, however deep beneath your surface.
Or whoevers.
What we seek, must seek too.
Cascaded
Shadows of old friends, like waterfalls,
Pour onto dimly lit refractions-
bedroom walls dance in agony.
What we seek, must seek too.
Fleeing,
Against an inescapable fold.
What we seek, must seek too.
Vol.3
66 years later
What essense prevails within,
must also destroys us.
It is everywhere
but for keepsake purposes, Nowhere,
all at once.
That is what I am.
Dying,
slowly, gracefully, in
Utero, once more.
What essense within prevails us?
Today there is no light in the sky,
Forecasted shadows, on tall buildings, filled with small people,
with short wits.
What should prevail onto their soul, but solid
Wastes of time?
Where are the Gods that ail me brother?
Where did the devils run sister, if not everywhere, all at once?
Whatever’s essense within,
borrowed, poisonous,
Makes of absolutely no exception
To the arrival of the sheep
who herd internally, looking for themselves,
Or pieces of it,
Borrowed, poisonous pieces,
Loaned in debt of damnation to a greater cause,
Uknown.
Together flocking in its direction.
Together once more toward Utero,
As Particles of dirt.
Consequence of inaction.
Towards the end of Today, sweet brother,
There shone an indominatable light like no other.
This light, dear sister,
Was cascaded onto the bindings of seamless corners;
Around every edge it blinded those
with their eyes closed.
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