26 September '17
The waves of light transfix us with happiness, but we should see the beauty of translucence in the sea and sand of temporal joy and humanity. Walk among the souls of the the living and the dead and you will see perseverance in the face of doubt, and know the ecstasy of being.
I do not cherish any commitment to the MOMENT, that sacrilege scar of transitioned empathy to wafting sails that fill no wind, that spill the glory of treasured opulent tribulations on the vacant lack luster regime of comfort in the craft of an existance of futility. The focus of freelace debutante heirs to inoculation into demographic profundity is not my escapade. The FUTURE elongates the exactness of conception. The tally of the deaths of the free spirited earth wanderers is not kind in histories rebuke of destiny’s children. So I rather to FOCUS onwards to milleniums precipice, the end of the gallows rope is spared to none but the defiant.
Contextual fabrications of synaptic, misfired, otherwise tangential regressions of insight, put to bare the flesh of sustained forbearance to a common system of logic known thru milleniums as idealised hegemony. The desire to have all, know all and be king of all that is or will be, extricates the soul of man, lays open that scar of disillusion for examination by tedious fact checkers to work the frenzied masses into unmitigated fervour, unleashing the flesh eating monsters of yesterdays delimas, transposing words to subjectve analysis, cost effective conjectures, only to reverse the altitude of projection at the mere scent of a more lucrative investment in mundane hypocrisy. Trouble me for a light sir, for I have a dark road to travel, with only a suitcase of trivial belongings, but amongst these, the weight of times trevail. I leave to the scholars of perplexity the anvil of societies delimas.
I eschew objectification terminated in vinager rhymes. Im not fortunate in sonic whisper translation. Dull is my houndstooth comb when scraglifying misinformed transient doo woppers and west ward ho! cantable characters, those search light vindicates of trespass redundancy. Trust the sword swallower in Antioch to tear a few syllables of ancient logic to shreds of moral decay. Off to the high meadow my meandering shadow compels me to go, and with that I leave the wrath of tongue lashing voodoo to the soothsayers folly.
The primrose archers line up their bows to let go the sordid arrows of injustice, standing to the man one hundred fold, red with blood and guilty of treachery and beguilment, another sacred prophesy unfulfilled, yet regailed, against the fence of insanity, lying with open wounds, tortured hands of heartless deliverance, to advance the thorn, the Dante’s Inferno of callous, reckless cruelty.
Find me in the reflecion of your fires. See me in your turbulent nightmares. Touch me in the field of the fallen. And reach for the dagger. A whisp of breath, and begone! The rail of steel vigilance moves me to the mile of the waters end, as the raft of the spinners of despair runs aground on the bank of the desert of the insipid, lackluster domain of the tattered remnants of the fury’s vestige.
Infinite universes breathe, unfold, and collapse as we contemplate our limited world of space and time. Yet we remain fixated on our small perspectives of life and death, and mortality and eternity. Perhaps, instead, we should focus on the beauty of the moments in which we perceive struggle and honor in the face of banality and grief.