-The wasp cared for the stranger

And the stranger for the ‘bee’

The stranger brought her marigolds

And the wasp brings her honey

The stranger sought for another life

But the wasp she could never keep

Never did they realize

The wasp was not a bee-



Three Dimensions of an Unwanted Soul

     Three Stages of Existential Dread



Perpetual-Purgatory Dread

Omnipresent-Inferno Dread

Transient-Paradiso Dread



Purgatory:



The Glasgow Subway of The Five-Dimensional Man



The Perpetual Existential Dread:



When you are lost in love
Your soul ages quicker than you grow old
Don't you see those living bodies with
Dead Souls
Trying to reap what was never sown



For the five dimensional man
Time is like the Glasgow Subway
He'll be aging forwards and backwards
To get to Hillhead you can't skip Buchanan Street
To get to the good times you can't skip the sad ones
And there's always going to be more bitter than sweet
But there's no end for the five dimensional man
There's no end to the Glasgow subway


He bought a typewriter down Byres Road
Learned to write South of Houston, Prince Street

The love was foreshadowed in Pandrossou Market
And he bargained and lost it on Main Street


The traveler travels through all of time and space
When you live infinitely, you'll remember every name
But when between dreaming and losing is your place
Even the immortal would lose his faith
He would give up the universe for one true love's grace
But perhaps it's easier to fall into the six dimensional ways
If infinite number of him existed in an instant with every trace
No happiness, no sorrow, no loss, no heart breaks
He'll gladly welcome the end of his days


There is a space time gateway 3000 light years away
For the end of solitude he'll endure this 30 lifetime race
He just wants to feel the comfort of a senseless place
And to fill his aching heart with empty loveless space
When nothing's ever gone, despair will vanish without a trace
Could this be the fate of the hapless five dimensional fool
Eternally without love, and another soul to his name





Inferno:



The Glass Elevator of The Six-Dimensional World



The Omnipresent Existential Dread:



They exist endlessly, they exist infinitely

I can see every trace of love

Wherever I want to be

Yet

This must be the undiscovered country

Where all travelers will return

The wasp found the stranger

Though neither of them ever left

This is the place of everything

Except, longing, heartbreak and dread



The Five-Dimensional Man has arrived

And in the happiest moments he’ll land

Here is the universe where nothing will ever end

Nothing ever passes

Nothing ever comes

All of existence in a single jump of the second hand



He looked through the looking glass

And shattered into a million six dimensional man

Each consciousness in one perpetual moment

Where he'll never experience anything else

Happiness or otherwise except

The Omnipresent existential dread of the

Six Dimensional Land




At the Gate of Paradise/Paradiso



The Walk of Life of A Fourth Dimensional Man



The Momentary/Fleeting Dread:



A piece of the trillion trillion six dimensional man

Floated near the wormhole from whence he came

When he crossed from the Five Dimensional Land

Though the new place in which he arrived had a beginning and an end



Since he is only a fragment, he fits in well with the rest of the men

Here, it is our own familiar landscape

My fourth dimensional friends

Where our protagonist finally found paradise

Or the nearest world before the sweet hereafter fence

He was born, he loved and lost, dreamt with regret

And finally passed on through the light

Leaving behind only ashes, dust and sand

Who knew all he craved was never infinite eternity on his Earth

But merely the end

Of his endless dread under the stars

Ever before the Promised Land

Chapter One — In the Woods

For all I know, I could be in a dream right now, no beginnings, no once upon a time, no long long ago; and perhaps no endings, no happily ever after, no the-end, and no non-arbitrary answer to the question. Of course, no one wants to read that, no one wants to be told that all they’ve ever believed in is a lie, what it is in the end, is what it was in the beginning, hopeless.

Everything is trivial, at least at the moment, at least that’s what I feel, well, I am who I am, is that not correct, or am I suppose to be someone else, or feel like someone else, the other I do not understand, the other I do not care for or about, the other I would never want to be, or the other that embodies, mimics, and mocks, all the sources and ends to my yielding to the scorns of life. No, I am only ME. That’s all I will be. Except, at the moment, and as abruptly as it may seem, at the moment- I do not know who I am.

Chapter Two — The Girl

Sitting in the subway, taking a stroll around the lake, all that time away from actually writing, your entire purpose of existence will-not rush to your mind-but simply all make sense.
Whether or not that is actually constructive is again, trivial at the moment. Whether or not the fact that the absentmindedness afterwards undermines all that insightfulness that had came before it makes the entire conversation unworthy of being discussed by its entirety, is not important, or just not interesting enough for me to ignore the fact that I am, at this very moment, running through a endless territory of barely anything other than stripes of forests away from the occasional darkness that most would call night.
If there were anything beyond the soft grip of the crisp emerald fields of molds and fungus, the soft shower of the gleaming silver moonlight, the tanning hides of the shading elms, an occasional joy of a little wilder beast, and the deadly silence, it is not within my sight, and I must be heading towards it. Yes, there must be something else.
Something beyond this stillness, this stock-still, never fleeting moment in time; there must be an end that is not an end for all this seeking of the seeker. There must be a meaning in all the seemingly meaningless continuation of a standstill.
There must be a gift, a present, well just a difference, to be the spark in the storyline, but what is it? I could guess, but that’s expectation.
Expectation, the tail of the tale you will be chasing after that exists not, because, all that you would have believed in only exist within your mind.
Anyway,

The Tree

One of my branches caught beneath the cape, and scratched at her ankle. I shook, and she did too, but only so slightly. Perhaps it was the wind, well, for me, but for her, I would rather, it was the instinct sensing of pain, or may be just a itch. Whatever it was, it was to be felt; she felt it, and so did I.
She did not, however, respond in anyway, and quietly she passed on. This is a disappointment to me, sadly. Actually, it was more than that, I felt a downing of emotions, from the curiosity of a child to the most slight, yet the most intimate pinch at the heart, a sharp pain.
What did I expect, was she to stop and grant me a part in her story, in the flight of the has-been worldly, and leave everything behind.
Have I forgotten, once more, that I am a tree, the ultimate metaphor for permanence? Even at that, the fact that I cannot move is not the question, what should be asked is what more could be there for a tree; yes, will I always remain, when all have passed on, the response as always, is probably yes.
What is there then, to all this, why do I still remain? As a tree, where did I get a hope that there is a hope, and what exactly is this hope. Perhaps I just always tell myself to wait and see, yes, maybe that is it. I’ll wait and see.
I turn around, or I just turns my attention back around, expecting to see her vanishing into the distance, however, she had not yet passed me. This time, one of my other branches caught at the cape, threatening to tear off the shield, I tried to stop them, but again, I cannot move. As she defends, the instrument of disguise, also known as the mask, almost yields, and unveils the mystery.
She quickly stations it back in place, nonetheless, although my appearance is as still as stillness can be, with my quick wits, I stole a look beneath the golden disguise, and I was surprised, yet not so much as I was delighted.
She was gifted with a natural pureness in her features, plain, yet, upright, proud, and inherently, and elegantly innocent. The nobleness draws the most fear, shame, and sorrow.
If I could, I would, lower down my gaze, and the crown-how ironic-of my tree, not in admiration, but in shame, the despicable, inevitable taunts of my conscience.
It is only now, that I have noticed as she had passed my way, that there is another player in this game, another character in this story. On her shoulder, sits the stereotypical shape of a petite and bright star. The light, lights my veiled blush of humiliation; she seems even more innocent, even more careless and naive, even more happy.
What is it, what is she smiling about; what is she thinking about?
YES, WHAT IS SHE THINKING ABOUT?

The Star

Well, I am her, so I would, or just, I should know.
The dreadful thing is, her identity is still a mystery; it doesn’t matter how close you gets to her, whether or not she is a princess, a ordinary farm girl, a boring city child, a dangerous assassin, or whatever she is, doesn’t just suddenly hop out in the clear for you. However, you can still sense from the baseline of our so called humanity, the little insanity our souls call intuition, an indecipherable comfort of our inner most consciousness, and subconsciousness.
I can see my own reflection from the back of her mask, funny how I can’t still see Her. Does it matter if I see myself, if all that’s ever going to change is my consciousness. Perhaps not, perhaps all I need was a sense of being, a sense of existence, to feel that extra undecipherable sense of bliss by mere proximity, I am with her, feels her existence, and that is all I needed.

When you are lost in love
Your soul ages quicker than you grow old
Don't you see those living bodies with
Dead Souls
Trying to reap what was never sown



For the five dimensional man
Time is like the Glasgow Subway
He'll be aging forwards and backwards
To get to Hillhead you can't skip Buchanan Street
To get to the good times you can't skip the sad ones
And there's always going to be more bitter than sweet
But there's no end for the five dimensional man
There's no end to the Glasgow subway




He bought a typewriter down Byres Road
Learned to write South of Houston, Prince Street
The love was foreshadowed in Pandrossou Market
And he bargained and lost it on Main Street


The traveler travels through all of time and space
When you live infinitely, you'll remember every name
But when between dreaming and losing is your place
Even the immortal would lose his faith
He would give up the universe for one true love's grace
But perhaps it's easier to fall into the six dimensional ways
If infinite number of him existed in an instant with every trace
No happiness, no sorrow, no loss, no heart breaks
He'll gladly welcome the end of his days


There is a space time gateway 3000 light years away
For the end of solitude he'll endure this 30 lifetime race
He just wants to feel the comfort of a senseless place
And to fill his aching heart with empty loveless space
When nothing's ever gone, despair will vanish without a trace
Could this be the fate, of the hapless five dimensional fool
Eternally without love, or another soul to his name

For the five dimensional man
Time is like the Glasgow Subway
He'll be aging forwards and backwards
To get to Hillhead you can't skip Buchanan Street
To get to the good times you can't skip the sad ones
And there's always going to be more bitter than sweet
But there's no end for the five dimensional man
There's no end to the Glasgow subway

Beyond the Veil of Our Inverted Universe:

I must wander

Beyond the thinnest part

Of our inverted universe

As we are outside of living


Living the whole of a dream

While dreaming

Fragments of

The Mirror of

‘Reality’


Truth is only to be felt

For we see

Only what we wanted to see

And think

Only what we wanted to think


But only feelings

From sparks of infatuation

To chasms of the deepest sorrow

Is authentic

In and of itself

Mercilessly

Beyond our desperate

Need for control


And there

Beyond the veil

Of false possessions

And

Expectations



Is

You


The authentic truth

Of

You


Beyond all thoughts

Rationality and

Physicality


Merely an intense feeling

Intertwined

With the untamed feeling of me


Two branches of lightning

Bursting through pure darkness

Briefly revealing the

Landscape of our universe

With the collision

Of our pure

Being






















When the Sleeper Wakes in Sleep:

When the sleeper ‘sleeps’

He wakes, on the other side

Of Plato’s Cave

And sees time and time again

Often in fragmented consciousness

The world that truly is

“Bigger on the ‘inside’”

“Smaller on the ‘outside’”


It’s like forever standing

Within a mirrored cylinder ring

Keeping faith to its seeming

Infinity

Even though only

Reflections are being seen


Reflections of the

Geometry of love

Thoughts

Unseen beings

Consciousness

And

Gravity


These and more

Floats around the exterior

Of this thin fabric of reality

Bumping into us occasionally

Letting us feel its obscured shape

But never witness its true property


Only through momentary slumber

When we open our minds eye

And peeks at the other side

When we drift away-

Unguarded by our perspective-

Through all of spacetime

And drift closer to the veil

As if through a plastic foil

Can we see and softly touch

The ‘matters’ of truth in life


See the wrinkles

And ripples in time?

That’s where runaway dreams

And forgotten past hide

You will see yours

And even all of mine


That’s why I can live

Again and again your happiness

And joys of mine

With near absolute clarity

Manifested through twinges

And longing

With the help of the night


That’s why

When the sleeper ‘wakes’

He can no longer

Bear this world of bright shadows

And must rush back

To the brilliant world

Under the dark sunlight


That's why

I leave the lies for the morning

And truth for the night

When you're weary of

My dazzling praises

You can dream among

The starry sentiments

Of my moonless sky






















A Brief History of that Muse Song:

The weight of thoughts

We hold deep within

Gather and increase in mass

Till we’re beings of immense gravity

Attracted at the moment of first contact

Never letting go


Even through the unseeable distance

I can still feel your pull-

Feel time stretch into infinity

Feel nothing else within my hold-

From our fateful event horizon


Even though we’re both vessels

Of very little voices

We’re far from empty

We’re far from silent-

With every unspoken word-

Not let out to wander and

Disperse-

We bear the roaring wrath

Of neutron stars deep within

Our Soul


And such

Is our ‘Density’






















Purity:

I believe that

Names can physically

Mold a being

Without human intentions

As accidental drops of ink

Muddies the water

Yours follow the opposite

And being true to its essence

You are indeed eternally ‘PURE’


Pure, in the winter lakes

Of your soft pensive eyes

Color of the earth, the dust of existing


Pure, in the crescent

Of your laughing eyes

Hiding no sorrow

Dragging me along with you

When it descends


Pure

In the ripples of your soul

As I felt every drop

Seen in your dazzling smile

Unseen, in the dreamer’s dream


And I, indeed a dreamer

The ‘MOON’, the ‘STARS’, and

‘A MYTHICAL JEWEL’

That radiates not

Within or without

Except under or carrying

Your light


If only I can be your moon

A source of comfort but

Only at your darkest

Never to steal your shine


Except

I am merely a solitary bird

In love with the spotless lofty sky


I may praise it

And lament in its silence

But I can never caress it

Possess it or even

Comfort it


So it shall be

For even a storm of the sweetest dreams

Might taint the purity of a cloudless night

Jacques de Rouge

The wandering pilgrim

Of poetic seekings

Drifted away once again

Oppose the Homeland Paris

And into the Heart of Italy

Known for many feats

Though,

One was in particular

Unmistakable

It is the City of Dante



Firenze, in a frenzy

Have manifested itself

In the Golden Light

Of heavenly stars to be

Alive with all characters

Past and passed.

Opening wide behind

Lorenzo Ghiberti’s

The Gates of Paradise

Dante himself emerged

From the centre

Of the Florence Baptistery

And ascended toward the light

The opening of Hope and Stars

Among the rings of Heaven

Jacques de Rouge followed,

In pursuit.

And kneeled before him,

As Dante stopped and stood

With the Eagle!

In Piazza di Santa Croce.



When Jacques de Rouge stood

In a shadow at Palazzo Vecchio

The shadow revolved like

Da Vinci’s Helicopter

With what seemed like

A bulging knot at the end.

Barely missed his head

Jacques de Rouge

Realized the swings

Were from the slingshot

Of none other than

That of the one masculinity

Of all masculinity

Michelangelo's David.



His marble complexion transformed

Almost ever so light and faintly

Into a smooth and pale flesh.

Jacques cast his eyes down

In an unavoidable instinct of shame.

When he looked up, the flesh

Is now a single dangling foot

Seconds from stepping into

The Niche of Orsanmichele

And approaching his beloved Christ.

Amen, and he proceeded.

Discreetly into the Secrets of Sandro Botticelli,

That which is secured marvelously

As the Standing Monument of

Giotto’s Bell Tower

And

Brunelleschi's Dome.



The Three Graces danced

The Venus stood in the classical position.

And one woman looked wearily at Jacques

Staring into his eyes.

And yes, Heaven it was.

As Jacques stood in the illusion of the weightless contrapposto.

"The great sleep is life, and in death we finally awake." - Yidhna