For what can we hold as our own
but our secrets.
protected by the endless bounds
in labyrinths of corticocircuitry.
An inmasterable code of sporadic impulses delivering refuge
of an imaginable world.
synapse to synapse
in an abstract journey through the depths of our being.
Our darkest fears,
Our brightest desires
running and clawing their ways into the most superficial layers of conscious thought.
For what do we have
when light exposes the demons
and realism paints over the beautiful picture of dreams.
What do we have but variables
in the most insignificant equation of our existence.
the beauty of the equation
would be painted
Rage Against the dying light
Stand strong please
Grip with all your might
Do not leave us
I hear Gods plan
I will save you
I promise I can.
For a loved one who fell in the fight to ALS.
Beneath the glass is empty. Hollow. Black.
Only a dismal blanket of refracted light falls sliding across, skimming slick atop.
Stitched heaps of skin pulled taught,
to hide what lies beneath
but lend to serve fresh, bloodied and raw
the false promises of hope and ill asylum.
Beneath the glass, draws fate near.
Cast sight towards the stitches and please try not to listen.
Weary for beneath the glass is where time holds absolute,
stagnant, and still
Time and the glass, for what it can appear;
hold each others' truths in the remaining fragments of our reality as they crumble of will.
For if the glass shatters, cold veins and warm hands are all we have left
to hold dear.
The light gives way to the dark blanket of shadows thrown over actuality, smothering the last flicker of infallibility. The blanket weighs heavy on what is and what could be, distorted by depriving it of oxygen, suffocating the mind of realism. For what is, is now what could be and what could be, is reality. What could be is suffocating amidst normalicy and routine fallen to fear. But what could be, will never remain what is.
A void frame holds together Black Mountainous clouds weighing heavy on the sky, fearing an inescapable storm. The land below, no longer recognizable for shadows have rained from the absence, eroding the clarity of which once stood firm.
Still fresh and raw, the painter stops. His garrisoned red eyes entrench the being of his grotesque creation and with lost hope takes his final brushstroke. The brush, with nothing more to give, lifts an unsubstantial bit paint off of the canvas. Leaving what appears to be, a negative silhouette. The white void of a butterfly.
Reticulated blue hues of thread reach ever so desperately to thin ropes of red,
resisting the event horizon of my soul. Consuming all of your beauty into a point of singularity.
Indescribable to those beyond the lens.
For mere words were never accurate enough to escape.
rest memories and dreams,
the strings which connect us to the past, present and future held linear by time.
The strings which captivate me like gravity seduces the fabric taking her away.
Forever deeper, forever closer.
But at singularity there there cannot be this separation of time;
the past, the present and the future.
There is only a concept, a promise, that is
Forever will time cease to exist when I am with you.
Forever will gravity pull me closer to you.
And forever will I try, desperately, to search for words expressive enough to escape this black hole of which I call a soul.
— The End —