Woe, and what darkness is this?
What existential bliss and moderate madness is the whole of this?
Woe, and bliss, like the cry of the lone nationalist, but without a flag.
As a ghost,  a notion.

As a wisp, a figment of nothing.  

In the fog, my heart.  

Dancing in endless circles of confusion.
A dervish of obsession, who is blind and lost of the path within.

In my heart,  the fog.

Woe, what is this darkness?

Peeling an orange.
Trying to make the spiral PERFECT.  

PERFECTION IS NOT ATTAINABLE.

or is it
?.?.?

I strive FOREVER for PERFECTION.

I desire so deeply, for perfection.

Failure is the wall I keep breaking my nose on. The blood that falls from that wound could turn the course of a river or flood the seas.

It should be able to melt the wall, so I can ascend the throne, right?

If I bleed enough metaphor will I flood the holes in my excuses and sail to forever and beyond where I only bathe in gold?

When the sun sets, I still see the sun.
It inverses in my mind, like a train with human legs and human feet have carried it from manifested back to idea. As if all I know or dream about is as meaningless as the words I profess to know how to write.
It's like as I hear the party at the neighbors, is it real? Does anyone else hear it? I hear my partner's breathing as she sleeps, and I wonder if I am real. Am I part of someone else's truth? Or am I not at all?

Is any of this real?

Whispering as a dance among colors, grayscale.

A cascade of emptiness, being full and on fire.

I found god at the bohemian grove.

The trees they sway with an ill-advised fervor.

A taste on my tongue, both sour and sweet.

It doesn't take much, but a wink and a smile...

...to both build a bridge and burn it down.

When it's ashes, a phoenix will have arisen, a rising, rising, ah-o-ï-el.  

When life is ashes, I will rise.

When life is ashes, I will rise.

When I am ashes, rise rise rise.

When the skin is cracked like dry earth,
do I grimace from pain or smile from desire?  

When skin is cracked like dead earth,
do I mourn or elevate?

To tear at flesh for obsession is to clear the shadows of repetition from the heart.

Do I grimace or smile,  when the red moon is hanging from the sky?

Is the grimace and smile different when the cracks in the clay are true?

Is it just a loop, like a snake swallowing it's tail?
Is it just a vice?
Is it medicine or malintent?

Is it better to have chaos inside and a perfect snowy field or sooth the forever storm and endeavor through the cracked desert until the end of historia?

Winter wizards dancing around my forthcoming saliva dripping tongue,
Desire for the frozen, dead landscape.
Like dreams that end and never start and like skies that are nothing and all at once...it dances around me forever and ever and the night is forever.
Yet, it ends when I look back upon it.
Yet, it ends when I look forward to it again.

The snow of melody falls and crashes.

The snow of love it burns and ashes.

The snow of life it lies and snatches.

The snow of faith it tries and thrashes.


Behold, the gate, in the northern light.

Behold, the wall, made of floating ice.

Behold, the shoes, covered in ice.

Behold, the pipe, wet with Christ.

Within I welcome crazy light,
Without I welcome sensible night.

Dancing and dancing, donning the cap of trees without leaves and horns from the graves before the seas.

Spinning the sun into suicide for a season.
Spinning the night into seeming forever season.

Spinning the story for the tale-born season.
Spinning the ice for this dead-earth season.

Ritual reborn, I call, into the night. (With thoughts, alone. No sprites of calling with my voice!)

Avast, and awaken in this frozen hill.

I await the spring, and until then....all is well in the endless white.

The endless white.

The endless white.

Gruel.
Japanese.
A Ku Klux Klansman in a bag of chips.
No,... wait,... popcorn.

The colour red.