i found my knife at the bottom of the mushroom jar where truth, boiled from the muck of an oak slavish of fancy columns, unjustified from the stains of a cold yellow sweat. i have become the primal suspect of an eminent probability among the universal system, taking life for death as trade among souls. i am the ******* monster, beast without beauty, a freak in consistent argument with minacious entities that surround my physical being. blood, sweat, tears- we lose.

there were several of them,
loud and other-worldly.
almost dream like(flight)
as its bunny magic slowly engulf
an empire of
perpetual beings.
melodies from the dark worlds
we sway left to right
to the sound of bunny talk,
identifiable
by the massive sound of
human waves.

i surround myself
with their voices
their sound and virtues
to obtain
knowledge of a strum
wisdom from the symphony.
i am part
i am half
desolate
i am lost
yet connected.
their words [truth]
tell my story.