Astral architecture hangs on the balance of my once fragile mind, now unbound and open to the potential of the Penrose Stairs that I climb. Infinity, I thought, was an innate idea man was not meant to understand, because if the universe is in fact infinite, into what does it expand?

Standing at the precipice of epiphany, teetering at the very cusp of clarity, it came to me in a monumental moment of sibylline singularity:

It expands into itself.

The thought was too profound to perceive, too ravenous to be satiated. Could this be at long last, the answer for which I have waited?

I realized that consciousness operates under a similar uniformity: the brain won't outgrow the head, but the mind will outgrow the body, and our echoes will radiate across the endlessness of existence, for all our forgotten frequencies are oblivious to the concept of distance.

We are all limitless beneath the veil of this perceived reality,
but only there are we human, and only then are we free.

as the rush comes
on the dance floor
it envelopes me
beats rising up my spine
and we are all one pulsating
             beautiful body moving          
                           losing inhibition
              as we spin and writhe
           expressing ourselves
        to that vibration
embraced and surrounded
by the flickering
          tangible sparks
                light we can almost catch
                        in our fingers and mouths
                   eyes like stars
or closed in our
       own private mantras
entranced by rhythm
minds in haze
untouched auras
in colors a-blaze
scintillating in the dark

moved by our own
inner cadence,
we are all bonded
through
        electric notes
downbeats alive
in quickening liquid metal
We inhale that invisible
sense of smoky escape
no thinking needed
but soul's center awake

So
rescue me
at  least for the night
wrap me in bliss
just bring it on
          an accent of sound
                  as the dam bursts
          in spiritual ******
        of musical flow
as we re-connect
to ourselves
in angelic dark
               glow

The man at the studio doesn't like us

we aren't pretty as the teens
not dazzling like the newly weds
our faces are pretty grim
smiles are once a river
foreheads dry riverbeds
eyes hold no commotion
but he does it for money
and winds up quick.

We walk to the river
where under the grey February sky
she plays with our reflections
babbling and breaking us
into unreadable pieces.

We both read our scripts,
but we're not on the same page.
You and I are just actors
who treat life as the stage.

We rehearse our lines,
but they're not what we mean,
for once lets break character
and call cut on this scene.

We could steal the show
if we rewrite the play
and end the charade
of this macabre matinee.

We've reached the finale,
there's no encore after all.
This is our shot,
our last curtain call.