Whose voice echoes down these halls?

Who asks that question more than one
could otherwise stand?

Immune to voids and letting go,
paralysis precedes the fall from grace.

More turns.
More turns.

One could walk while they chase
if they absolutely had to.

I can turn a bright morning
into a nightmare as good as any.

it doesnt mean i want to.

so every moment not alone
is "too many cooks" to me.

it doesnt mean i want that either.

these words of mine
are a labyrinth

I've been floating
down rivers of questions
my whole life.

Picture ancient microbial life
resurrected from a glacier
quickly melting somewhere.

Floating on the thread between.

in lieu of a gilded rose
in front of a glimmering window
we have this moment
in which we disclose,
to you as much as to ourselves
a memory;
bones pulled from a frozen lake.

call it stolen.
call it entropy.
don't ever call it again.

no matter the path
you choose to crack microscopically
Saturn will still scream on a wavelength
that took 4.5 billion to even be noticed.

that's divinity.
blindly casting unfathomabilty
at the void all around itself:
king, queen, and the thief purloining
the centerpiece from the former's feast table.

so please explain to me why,
a billion miles away from Saturn,
closer to Sol,
suicide is something that exists.
especially since every truth is a myth
that, in the end,
was ripped from the mist of **** memories
remembered a bit differently.

so, is it stolen?
is this entropy?
are you married with kids?

whatever it's become for you,
love it.
as well as however it is you fit into it.

wine or blood?

either way, a window opens
and all I see is how the sheep
and the wolf share a common
enemy:
the shepherd.

blood it is then.