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Quiet Jun 2021
Anything but Nothing
Quiet Jun 2021
Further extrapolations of previous doctrines masquerading as novel insight 
Solomon was said to say that there was nothing new under the sun
What has been said before is surely to be said again
But in a thousand different ways
All eluding to the same thought: This isn't real. 
This isn't real. 
Platonic forms and what not.
A glimmering shade of the real behind the veil. 
So much so steeped into our reality, that this non-reality, that it expresses itself through our very own devices
Mediums of consumption.
Screens holding windows into fictional realms of passed by moments and segments long gone to reality.
Furthermore, fictionalizations of the false reality -
what was referred to as hyper real
Rather Subreal, to the point of where surreality becomes the perceived reality
Only perceived as real by the perciever but unable to apprehended or -
objectively known. 
False moments become crystalized versions of themselves - the reflection of a mask masking another mask.
The face is never known - 
The first and final thought - 
What is real?
Further down the hallway of mirrors we traverse 
Growing dimmer and more shadowed until we blur into darkness and any remnant of the originating light has been stretched to thin 
And we have arrived to the point of no return 
Beyond the event horizon of perception 
Unable to ever return 
Ignorant that there ever might have been something to return to
A black hole sun
A lie universally and eternally taken as truth
No need for further discourse T
This is "real".
This is "real".
Quiet Jun 2021
Bare the weight of it all?
Or join the simplicity?

Is it all dire?
Do I conflagrate into the night?
Or ride the wave to sunset?
Quiet Nov 2020
Dictating the pressure and pleasure of a thousand suns.
The sounds of you mouth, lungs, tongue rung for a thousand more
Whispered of a dwell of a thousand lunge
Hips lunge and such enough to ****
And succor, what fur is enough, not ever
But weathered by a thousand doves
And shoves of what not and so forth
Withered flowers but like ripe grape and onion
Layer upon lair
Indulging in the cake of your whatnot and so forth
Going so forth and what not till a thousand suns what not and so forth
Over and over, rolling hills and billows of beaming sun break into onions showering what not from the mouth, lung and tongue with enough so forth to erupt, quake and brake a thousand lungs
And do
More and more what not and so forth until withered flowers retire
Spires and the places they what is
What is this to say, not ever grasped but sough and wrought after with a thousand lunge tiring to a day or night or whenever when a new dawn is
A thousand kings wither at it away until the so forth and what not is delivered from its own what not and somethings akin to belonging is shone
I would love to follow this up with some deeper understanding or insight into what manifested this odd little poem. All I can say is another rambunctious, bruising excursion - a foray into Love's quarter. But all the more inspiration to keep searching was found therein as well, despite all the tumbling and misuse of hearts.
Quiet Nov 2020
we wear the faces of those we love,
like glove of lovers mask,
we bask in their aura and are left unfamiliar with our old faces,
but trace a new etch by way of nuance and gest impressed by their forms and the love they express.
Quiet Oct 2020
font of life glowing white with water clear
atop the tower of life; a strength held dear
down the water flows into the lands green near
draining color drear to give life to grays
fear not for they are one and the same
Quiet Oct 2020
I have always wanted to be something coveted.
I have always wanted to be something lauded over.
I have always wanted to be something praised.
I have always wanted to be something that instilled awe.
Even Worship.
I want you to crave me.
To yearn for me.
To love me and to hate me and to be simply unable to live without me.

And when it's done,
to never be able to fill the hole I've left.
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