Woken in darkness
I stand confused and alone
Unsure of my place

I still think about you
But do you too?
When Laying at night
With everything dark in sight
Counting the ceiling fan blades
As your awakeness don't fades
Yet staring at nothing to see
Do you still think about me?

Who is which –
I the One, or the other?
Another another…
Here I hear the ones
each the other,
Noone the One.

You they pray to,
ask for You they do.
Yet their aim never be true…

Antaios the Somber,
Hercules‘ Challenger.
Weather the bother,
wake a slumped Brother –
You, Antaios Above!

What will it be like to be dead?
I imagine peace
But not the sort that makes you pretend
I imagine comfort
But not the sort that makes you crave action
I imagine oneness,
But not the kind that makes you feel lost
I imagine silence.
But not the type that makes you crave noise
I imagine stillness
But not the type that makes you restless
I imagine emptiness
But not the type that makes you feel alone
I imagine nothingness
But not the kind that makes you hungry for stuff
I imagine
And then, I do not

Do not conflate mortality and morality.
You can die a sinner,
Or you can die a saint,
But we all die just the same.

I carry you in my heart;
in my head; in my bones.
I would have carried you to the earth's end,
but now, you are simply mulch.

I gaze into the eternity beyond pupils dilation
Where soul has lost sole control of the spirit
And the darkness that grips twists the mind
Warping memories into incoherent phantoms
Wailing in anguish as I brush them aside

Gazing deeper,
Beyond the pale of of my mortal coil
Searching for an answer that nature neglects
Written not in emerald green starbursts,
Shrouded by grey washed blue skys,
But further, beyond the heavens
Where night stretches beyond Terra Firma
And empty space reigns in perpetual waltz
Aging as my eye progresses towards the birth
When light was given life and purity was pure
Before the infection of the question
That has no answer

Nor did it need,
For there I found looking back as if a mirror
My reflection staring at itself in amazement
For I had solved the theory of everything
By knowing thyself… beyond myself

Numerically perfect,
a flower is polished science indeed,
with petals that whisper the secrets
of the golden ratio's creed.

But a rose curving out
on the lethal thorns is indeed
no math, no logic!