mistakes, i keep making them, but is it a lack of pride or care in
the face of uncertainty?… the fears wrap ages around the stuck physical
laws… like a fingertip ringing the sovereign bell toll as it tolls for
thee… the hands of a god omits defeat, to retreat into the safety zone
of comforts known, and those bastards leave us Here in the reckless
wilderness to conceive of a self from which to draw upon… clay-shaped
irredeemable havoc the likes of which we allow to be in the tragic
reality of who we are and where we seem to be going… stinking and stuck
of too little too late, the cliche as such describes the very heart of
the meat, and the words raw and unyielding draws blood from their prey…
beating down the door retarded, that thing that stains the apes we
pretend to be, but mutates as that viral growing thing we ate… the rape,
the rape of ourselves and the land, and this misery translates again
and again… tearing the tainted thrust apocalypse into the wind, and
savoring that drastic sigh, as all hell broke loose in fits at night…
the mind an unsavory stew, the images we take, and the people we hate…
all these things met and faced in the dream… the capable killers of the
finite material span cannot return unmarred from those exacting
splinters… the voracious delivery of something wet as it approaches a
forehead and lingers back, that dreadful kiss of impotent rage, and the
twisting movements are wandering clear… the hands wringing themselves to
decay, like the spent motions of oceanic sways, a kinetic wash crashing
against the grey…
Thanks, khet.
Thanks, khet.
