You want to breathe my shadow?
You want to feel my rage?
You want to see me howl and roar like phantom wolves inside a cage?


They throw my body in cell,
I bare my teeth and grin.
They leave me where I tripped and fell but I remember
every
sin...
My eyes,
they stare,
my face is calm...
But creatures stir inside my veins...

If I let go of all control,
the fire of hell would swallow me whole.

What's this...?

But you my dear...
you wish to see,
the darkest parts I hide in me...
I find it strange,
I can't explain,
you choose to never turn and run.
You touch my lips and gently kiss
what burns like violence from the sun...

Well if you insist...

Show me your anger. Show me your rage.
Open my body,
page by page...
Give me wounds inside this cage.

Roar with my fear,
moan in my ear,
scream with me,
perhaps we'll see...
why your demons play so well with me...

Planets above and fathoms below,
I ask on the Empty, "Where should I go?"
Do I trust my compass, shall I break my clock?
Are there ways of guidance we've yet to unlcok?

One giant leap forward, two giant leaps back.
One foot nursing wounds, one prepared for attack.
I knock and I knock at the great wooden door
but the Empty is silent and I wonder for more.

My questions give silence and no answers are found
except words of heaven that make not a sound.

The planets and fathoms, they answer me not,
but somewhere has answered this pondering thought.


You can search far and wide, you can struggle and bleed,
but the answers your seeking aren't the answers you need.

Temporal distortions.
3,2,1   1,2,3.
Subconscious contortions.
“Twinkle twinkle little hat,
Tell me on whose head you sat.”
They ask me my name and I want to answer, but they seem to be standing on their heads, and feet do not have ears from what I can tell.
There is a man in the corner aging backwards and an infant in an armchair reading what appears to be Dickens, while puffing on a pipe. He gives me a cold look and also asks me my name.
I start to reply, but he has already buried his head back in the book.

5, 4, 3, 2… 9.
Wait, that isn’t right.
9, 8, 7, 6, 5… 13.
******, that isn’t either.

Cardiovascular erosion.
“Come on then, take a deeeeeep breath. That’s it. Find your inner chi. You are on a splendid beach.”
Synaptic corrosion.
“Now the second law dictates that entropy will always increase, and entropy, as we all know, is the amount of Thetans we possess in our body.

15, 12, 104, 18…
****, what comes after 18?

The people standing on their heads have started singing Christmas songs.
But it is in the middle of Bruly. Christmas is not in Bruly. It is in Leptember. What silly creatures.
Distant phonetics.
If a tree falls in a forest, will it disturb Rip Van Winkle?
Ocular genetics.
Now I quoth Jesus when I say, “If one eyes does cause you to sin, pluck out the other one if it doesn’t want to join in on the fun.

I can no longer speak. My teeth have turned into book pages, dampened by saliva. The man again backwards is now merely a floating fetus in a womb with the infant tsking in disapproval while puffing on his pipe.
The people standing on their heads are singing the wrong words to Oh Holy Night and once more a voice asks me my name.
Suicidal contemplation vs societal insubornation! Who will conquer who..?
Through teethless gums I murmur,
“I have no name, I have no face. I am chaotic understanding made of madness in my veins.
Close your eyes and count to ten.