26 June '17
Solitude waits in depths of the shadow of thoughts, that vacuous realm of resolve, always sublime, yet tactfull and inquisite, precise, though dismal, an incognate respite for the soul traveled beggar of dooms disrepair. The knowledge seeks its level in anachronistic mercy for not forgotten septors of strife. All is not lost in the terror of times tresspass. To gain the unknown and lose the forgotten steps up the flow of creation and a gamble is thrown to the wolves of destiny. I must not take away the frivolity of near miss counter productive silence in forging through to mayhems tusk. Let the raffle begin! Bargain with the quite eyes of solitude? Ill not. The winner takes all and all is of what? Take it straw master! And I recieve to my emptiness, the song is sung, the rafters are empty.
Arcane wisdom flows, indifferent to the position of logical mechanisms, of recluse foragers of darkness, the merchants of ersatz. I offer the translucent vest of privilege, yet I don the cloak of redolence, the fear of antiquated logarithms and outcast schisms of redundent folk tales, I marry the wind to my resilience in the deep of sleep, and fall from heavens pallet to the floor of treacherous consciousness, a vast upheaval of preclusive doubt shattered in light of pre dawn dissolution. The day is young, the system researches to find no solution in affect, of episode reflex there is but vacuous restrain, for the molecules of the moment are of incredulity, dispersed to the hounds at bay, the ransom for kings, paid in blood by the sons of villeins and serfs.
The Chair.
I am not of faithless vitriol, unwound trevass rays, garden slumber hummus, a kinked up repartee of some wonder fearing genome, that circles the hue of inclination, to perhaps upon a chance to free burdens equity, to even the tables plane. The chair’s domain is that. I stand to recourse the delima, and read the stars thru unseeing eyes. They are my fortune, my grasp on the tides redolent, mercurios aftermath. I but unravel the vines to clear the path, which is known to all, but seen by none.
Equinox brew, schism mechanics, a dusted off bowl of poor man siren screaching, longevity takes its toll in the mere lack or recession of calamity, and bales of sage brush hay feed the survivor of Tremont’s august reach for the power of mercy amidst the gloom of shadow hedges. That realm of fate, dry to the touch, an overshot parlance, residual drawbrige canyon hopper. Make true the inference of guilt, for what I know not. Take the season of myrth, over the waters of deference to the railyard time keepers watch, and tick the seconds for the favor of sustained insight. Sundown’s enemys are wayfarers, the beacon is overcast, the tridents sword swoops fierce, dalliance delivers, the knock, the “clik”, the aftermath of vicissitude.
The equation of myth driven analogies to horse drawn buggies, centuries recalled in literary exclamations “Woe To The Foreboding Renaissance”, the estuary of contemplation in futile fervor, the defining of the madness of mortality, multiplied by the digestion of events that take the armour off the truth pillagers and bares souless their validity, equals a justice value of very litte, untill I add the humanity factor. Then the answer comes to me, and peace prevails again. Bewidered, I plead innocent of the charge of knowledge, yet take refuge in solace that I am a seeker only, and as such, I can rest the dragon’s fire of cosmos concerns, liquidate the obtrusion of pride, and know that I carry no burden of tempest wisdom, nor do I estrange my pardons from the sirens of the soothsayers.
We see the sun sink and dissolve into the sea of our shattered dreams and desires. Where then will we find solace? Look for it in the dark flickerings of infinite universes unfolding.
