Hateful ignobility wrought upon us these
Blissful fragments of tormented peace.
What shall be said, to our high priest,
"King!" Amassed before the lowly beast.
Unfiltered foolishness rid us our dream
"Avaunt! There is no place for you to bring."
Wherefore betwixt the serpent's gaze malicious,
Bloomed a thousand vibrant fruit precocious?

Anon I cast this body ablaze, amaze!
No ceasing tongue could me more grace.
Writhing agony upon the stakes makes
Not a sight inticing of my craves.
Heresy upon heresy, to dare invade
This earthly domain we've made.
The fig tree bears no fruit, thus let it
Be jilt upon the basket we knit.

Still are adored these little green branches,
And their pink buds, yet undone, too, matches.
This twilight over the hill, dusks before dark,
This half light erelong, stars unmarked.
Forsooth the answer ought come, but
Wilt it be made known to such a mutt?
Curtains will close, roses will wither,
Wherein will we know to go thither?

This mud, tis cold. This grass, tis old.
And there's nothing else in sight.

This is a cruel world, this you cannot reject.
    For I have lived one thousand lives, I have seen the infantile self enough.
    Yet it would please God none to grant me salvation.
    Still in earth, I have tasted the punishment of the forest of self destroyers.

I am the name of the God above, in me is the eternal forgiveness.
    Yet what cruel tricks I play on my self.
    For playing God is not in my nature.

----

From a cold sweat I wake from dreams of fear and wrath, to the darkness that embrace me.
To this, I hate.
From this discomforting bed I rise, in the consuming black around, forward to another path.
To this, I despise.
Nameless tears yearn to see the light of night, guided to the mirror that reveals my flesh.
To this, I cower.
Ripping flesh from bones, I dream of the day coming forth that would rid me of my corporeal being.
To this, my beloved self, I yearn.

----

What lies ahead? “Ruin.”
What ruin? “Ruin of your soul.”
What soul? “…”
Answer me. “…Sorry.”

The sins I committed are not my own.
This meat stuck upon my Self is not I.
What have I become?
In the wake of the beast.
Another victim to complete and utter destruction?

Complete and without hope and in the depth and before the door,
    I am.
In the inconceivable form of the flesh, through veins of blood and strains of nerves,
    I was.
Through and through without Self and with neither dreams nor ambitions,
    I shall be.
Yet ascension is the worse fate one could give to oneself.
    I.

----

I am the name of the eternal night, singing quietly under the glory of the moon.
    I am the name of the universe.
    I am the name of the dream you call living.
I am the love that permeates the air, in dissonance without any understanding of self.
    To permeate is not to be rid of identity.
    To permeate is not to be like everyone else.
I am the desire that desireth itself, the love that love loving.
    To desire is not to indulge.
    To desire is not to expunge.
I, to love loving yet not loving, in loving do I love loving loving, yet loving is not in my nature.
    To love is not lovingly giving.
    To love is not lovingly taking.

I am the name of the eternal night, the everlasting impression of you.
I am the name of the universe, the disquieting grandeur.
I am the name of the dream you call living, the dream of dreaming.
I am the name of the love of loving, the longing of connection.
I am the name of the existence of existing, the paradox of permanence.
I am the name of the hopeful reverie, the approaching daybreak.
I am the name of the perfect hatred, the emotion directed at the synthesis.
I am the name of the prison of flesh, the rememberer of the soul.

Carry on, ye who carry my name, and lose you of your fear.
    Say out the prayer of the final day.
And, at last, upon the souls of ye who yearn for freedom, let there be etched:
    Angel of Noire, the multitude of perspectives.

Oh you, dearest you.
Looking forward to seeing the coming of another day.
Oh me, dearest me.
Looking forward to the coming of what may.

Sitting here, chatting here, laughing here, crying here.
"Where is here in the world outside?"
We both laugh. There is no answer.

The clock is ticking, but only in one direction.
The sun is beaming, but only the light.
The eternal present, the forever now.

The sun rose in it's morning glow,
To the world it gives all to show.
The birds chirp and flower bloom,
"So warm! So bright! It ought be soon!"
My eyes have yet to close.
And so I ask: "when do I sleep?"

The hanging light from the sky above,
Bereft the land with shadows below
The predator stalks the ignorant prey,
For life goes on with apathy to prays.
My eyes have to close.
And so I ask: "when do I sleep?"

The fire ceases past the horizon far,
And guidance is lost in a night of tar.
The living lost in the land of dreams,
Where even wisdom can no solace bring.
My eyes have yet to close.
And so I ask: "when do I sleep?"

Shade eternal covers the land,
Doom inferno prepares to band.
My eyes have yet to close.
And thus I ask: "when I do sleep..."
Yet there is no longer anyone to hear,
And so I ask: "when do I sleep?"

The sun rose in it's morning glow,
And once more I look to show
For I have no eyes that I can close,
No longer.

Ah, the fleeting irony.
The scent of that sweet fragrance,
Fragile as the mist in the morning sun.

In whose lens do we view this world,
When naught have begun to wake?

Weeping in this night of solity, I seek
The pupil of another.
And so wakes the dream. Whence I see the blazen wheel of fortune
Landing upon-
Nothing at all.

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.