Life has always been about the decaying permutation of possibility.
When you are young, the infinite paths sing with endless potentials.
These branches are primed with the indifferent hands of time.
Choice still exist, as it always has, yet the narrowing is haunting.
It is that inevitability is that hangs around in ominous fog.
Approaching that finality is a journey of bittersweet grace.
Stone slabs descended down,
forming a staircase straight to hell.
A sea of screaming miasma suffocated
either side of the winding venture.
The light of the world above no longer
registered as darkness swallowed this place.
It seemed that whether forward or back,
this road was infinite.
Finally, after endless time, the monument
of this suffering came into view.
The blackest Obsidian rose beyond
comprehension and without feature.
Voices wailed and tension bloomed
in ominous agony.
And as it called out, a liquid wave of
familiarity poured in and around me.
The door, once unmarked, split down the seam
as I came within the final stretch.
Understanding drowned my mind,
as I pressed my palm against its surface.
Instantly, with a deafening boom,
it swung open on ethereal hinges.
Walking through, in bewildering clarity,
what was one became two.
Books are fuel to the imagination.
Works of fiction pour into my mind,
hours at a time.
I feel the power rise,
as I climb through expositions.
I see the world in the palm of my hand.
I see my face amongst the clouds.
On this high I craft my own words,
some spoken and others in ink.
And as I fall,
I ponder the time until my return.
The current of clouds flowed above in a stream of darkness on top of the deep violet vignette's of sky.
In opposition of this, a defiant sickle of moonlight joined the scattered street lamps.
Their small chorus of light illuminated the early morning for the wanderers .
It is a quiet time, before the Sun gives breathe to life.
Before dawn, serenity walks all the winding ways.
Eternity lives within these moments.
Tears welled in the mourning of everything unwritten.
The mind's starvation is the stagnation of the imagination.
Survival has been no serenade.
A memory is just a story altered.
Every recall differs from the one before it.
The details will fade, though the essence remains.
An orator of the mind spins the tales,
Our experiences catalogue them.
The bitter ones grow even more bitter.
The happy ones grow even happier.
But this mind of mine refused my request.
Figuring some memories are best,
And so in my unremembering,
I ponder the splendid and mundane,
that has all been locked away.
As he walked about the world, it fell to shambles around him.
Buildings crumbled, the sky fell, the ground tremored beneath his feet.
He'd rub his temples, blink his eyes, and scream within his mind.
Then it would all reform, destruction undone before his eyes.
He'd walk about his world again and it would all fall to shambles.