We carry our worlds within our hands

And communicate in time with our heartbeats

We can see the world from above and far away

Or the inside of ourselves in minute detail

Time can be tabled, abstract or meaningless

As we try to find our souls

We adapt to ever change

While love remains the same

The devil lies on top of my windowsill
With whispered spell. In an ensorcelling hell,
He sniffs tricks up his sleeves and his tongue has become numb
To the weeping and gnashing of his rotten teeth.
The words he speaks are only born to deceive.
He creeps into sleep inching towards my infant dreams
And takes their life from me. Hold my throat, abort my screams.
When I wake take all that I see; blind me to the truth with illusory inventions,
Fact erodes with the friction of silky fabrications. Hold me in your visions
As the phantoms sing hymns of their unholy afflictions, for eternities
I shall be trapped in his perdition.

-SLuR

There's such a strangeness about meaning, knowing
it may be of no significance to others
but is the world to you.
Can anyone else feel this, can one communicate, what's
stopping me from feeling you?
Am I locked-out of your experience, or locked-into mine?
The soul-ache to escape, serotonin pangs.

Longing for connection, the body wanes and the town's fallen.
Hopes and dreams, aspirations,
Wonder without reason. I sit here,
Looking over the river, upon the university campus
where I spent many days studying, and a commercial boatclub
where I spent many nights raving. I sit on this rock
where I read The Tempest and write for myself
and listen to compositions of my own hand.
I think how selfish I am, experiencing
A World Alone (- Lorde). I am
sorry not sorry. I swear
I haven't forgotten
what it means
to be human.

The rain and the wind, ragged and wet weather
unlike any other out in the forlorn West.
We go at it all the same, buzzin'
in the soaking precipitation.

That night I saw a man realize he'd spent years of his life
wasting around G-town, and'd naught to show for it.
The lure of endless craic and perpetual sessioning
had ensnared him and he'd lost himself to this place,
Became a character in the local scene that recited his lines
and acted out his part.
What was all that he felt?
Were it at the behest of his
town, the jester himself
knows this place well.
Artsy-types, buskers,
Hippies and jugglers,
Crusties, line-backers
Shams and knackers,
Sesh-heads all.
Passing students, wanna-be teens.
All pretending they're larger than life
or whatever, in this way they almost are
but in-keeping their company you'd easily

become a fixture of the town. Ah,
You can't blame the city for its nature,
Though you may certainly curse it some.
After all you're the changeable one, being.