Man is born a creature unlike itself.
One million aspirations bouncing around itself,
Energetic, effulgent, indefinitely wishing for itself,
That it ought to become all that is not itself.

But time wears at the spirit of that self.
Entropy robs them of identity, of will, of self.
They build their own cages of codes for itself.
While that cage rots and weeps under the pressure of itself.

Yet all that is are not that which is not themselves.
You cannot be you and also everything else.
What are we if not birds in a cage, awaiting itself,
That it will one day die, and became all that it isn't once more.

The clock ticks restlessly on the plain wall.
Black rim and quartz glass make up its form.
Always just a quarter ahead of
the actual time which I want to know.

And I look at it, stare at it, for
I still can't make clear those inscriptions.
When is where and who is what is there?
I still can't make it out quite so clear.

And as I stand to move to elsewhere,
I glance once more to that empty wall.
To find nothing there at all.

Like rays of judgment.
Like seeds of love.
Like beads of wrath.
Like those of madden gods.
Like pills of incontinence.
Like marbles of glass.
Like the will to grief.
Like those of an innocent child.

3 times, eternity.

At first I woke in a sea of red,
In that infantile state where consciousness ceases.
With nothing but a desire to feed,
Or perhaps not even desires at all, in that endless peace.

At next I spoke in pitch darkness of game of chance,
A coin flipped by another.
"You needn't show me," I needn't fall in a trance,
Out-coming a grief ever greater.

At last I do not remember, that state of divine bliss.
And who can remember the sacred emotion that cease?
So I seat myself in thorns of despair, quietly in diss.
Which is precisely what granted that memory to decease.

3 times, eternally.

It begins to rain.
Some droplets here and there,
Uninteresting to say the least,
Yet it will suffice for now.

It begins to pour.
The sky darkens, the wind blows,
An applause for the beauty of this song,
And it ought to suffice for now.

It begins to storm.
The heavens split into a multitude,
The cries of the winds and earth ravaging all,
It is sufficient now.

It begins to fall.
The clouds shatter, the mirror breaks,
The weeping and mourning continue,
It is overwhelming now.

But yonder,
It is raining somewhere else.

Like the curtains you close,
Like the dreams I wake.
"From this day, keep living on,"
But there's nowhere to stay.

It's a long, recurring song,
A drawn out and, repeating dawn.
Watch the snow come and fade,
The moon, wax and wane.

I feel the beauty all around,
But have no eyes to look them on.
Another one, soon will come,
To give me to...another.

The courage to live,
The eyes to love,
The will to laugh,
I have none.

But I long, and in longing I wait.
Longing, for another.

The words of the Mother.
The will of the Father.
Tangled together in loving embrace,
A web of some snares and many praise.

"Oh who, may I ask, could edge this place,
So laced with by the eagerness on their face.
That they dare tread in our domain,
Thinking they could leave with no remains?"

Says they, ever watchful, ever lurking,
Not unlike the eyes and desires of the Erlking.
Yet with loving eyes they have and will watch,
With care, they too tread through this notch...
...where giants had fell.

Be gracious to all their iniquities,
Be grateful to all their insufficiencies,
Be graceful to all their incapacities.
For we all live on the same path.

Silence midst the black, for no one listens.

A multi-faceted construct, this is, a divine work.
The million praises had earned it some perks.
A panopticon of disillusioned dreams,
Broken, leaking, failing at the seams.

But yonder! A company midst the black,
With they will you finally find some slack.
Join hands in joy and in finding your lew,
"Dance with me!" Begins the pas de deux.

Your forms weave, what amazing shapes you compose,
Your steps in sync, what amazing music you propose,
Your eyes locked, what amazing love arose,
Your mind fogged, what amazing dreams we live in.
In the color of madness.

"But all dreams end eventually."

In fear you of exposing the core of your being,
How many layers have you hid your soul in?

"Conform," they say.
"Contrive," they say.
"Concede," they say.
"Conclude," the say.

But this is not the dream you want, is it?

Silence midst the black, for no one listens.

The panopticon arise from the empty nothing,
It always follow, no matter where you go.
The all-seeing eye is but a golden nothing,
Run, run, all you want, you must answer yes or no.

Beneath the sky, a thousand eyes open.
Unblinking, unmet, undisturbed, restless.
The glass sun drift across the lucid sky,
Fabric weaved from lies are made often.
A quiet greatness.

The singing river runs deep, in the valley of our hearts.
What horrid lies it tell, what fervorous dreams it make.
"Alright, it's alright, it is ok to die."
Is this is the tragic end of all our arts?

Extent of dreams and fervor and lies?

"Tell me, tell me!" The voices cry aloud.
"Show me, show me!" The eyes line the crowd.
"Let me, let me!" The hands grasp at straws.
"Hear me, hear me!" The mouths, unified, proud,
Frivolous.

The utter destruction of logic and will,
The mindless construction of information still,
The great structure of mirrors and speakers,
The ruthless construct for harvesting souls.
Pointless machines.

Silence midst the black, for no one listens.

Dread the will, dread the error.

Hide the body, hide the mind.

Fear the panopticon, fear the construct.

So many lies, so many cries.
How many limitations will you place upon your salutations?
Life's a cage we built, never knowing that it'll tilt.
Self-imposed, juxtaposed, core exposed.
Why?

Naught may answer, for naught emerges from the black.
Why bother? They all collapse anyways.
So, take me with you,
Unto a newer afterlife.