there is no right or wrong… aspects of the ridiculous wings of
faith… deceptive ends to the chaotic fine wires of peace… there is the
taking of things for granted… skating on thin ice in the middle of
summer… snippets of a greater piece of harmony… one that accepts the
animal and the intellect… what grounds we tread that slowly creeps like
vine and ivy… the surging likenesses of a darker whim that only the
dispossessed find solace within… there are such sacred arts that one
cannot penetrate by will alone… the Crow leads us on with flight path
thrown for loops and loops as we stare bewildered at the mess made
gently… the scary thoughts seem to permeate the lost souls that inhabit a
material world left to our own devices… the hum between the trees
floating like melody through the drifting winds… the fight back getting
tedious all the time until the spirit is killed by the harmless
accidental loss of faith… Here are the maiming things that betray the
inner nature spiking the punch and kicking scream that echoes from cold
stone wall to cold stone wall… we seem to say these things to emptiness
as the flesh never sits long enough for listening and understanding… a
brain rattling around the skull tries to appear attentive, but fails
with a miserable expression on its face… a stiff fountain eroding
mountainous trends set into by other friends of the dissonance… a
breakneck speed at which to fling oneself into the flow that we are
going with… are there any substances that remain substantial today?… the
frightening essence of life everlasting, and outlasting a solid
feeling of looking back… beyond the holes in hearts so common in ones so
young… we set a wayward system in motion to never stop pushing us away…
it lives to destroy itself and its plans… the waddling mass moving like
a penguin percolating from a frozen fetish ritualizing the pain of
being… Pavlov’s mutt we are to beg for forgiven flames of desire, but
what do we know of this trance-like state of fear and sorrow from which
it seems as though we cannot pass and adapt?… the bestial minds itself
among the unfamiliar traits and tricks that make up the crass mood of
mankind… the stark compassion that pulls us to our collective knees in
regret and tears, and turns our souls from lead into gold with the right
moves taken… few times appeal to the horde like the truth of a
contemplation rationalizing bravery amidst the damned movements of
indecision’s kiss… it lays across our forehead in a blissful waking
state with our eyes closed as we walk into the fire… the tunnel grows
sharp as it inserts and asserts itself in the anatomy of gesturing
symbols… they twist apart and leave their striking point in the
conscious plane… it changes from mouth to mouth for a chance to stick
somewhere that it has never been before… a furious freak out that we
can’t see as deftly as we need… under the surface, it mates itself
sparingly with torrential outpouring of restless emotions… the nodes of
distress take us by the hands, and present us toward the sun as a fierce
blazing sets in upon our skin… scalded and scolded by the passion to
get out of Here before it becomes too difficult to handle everything at
once… trading the tricks of survival in for those lies of submission…
sleep is that great equalizer that takes years of practice to get right,
and centuries longer to make certain it sustains the spiritual body…
the poisoned self stares at the wall as though there is no tomorrow, but
the obstacles lie like casual observers that only seem to make sense
over the ruins of another era insane with mad human ants in the wake of
panic… a crazy banished subhuman that oozes over eons of guilt and
repressed emotive engineering… native woes of the melting finite
knowledge housed beneath…
Thanks, khet.
