What is this? What arrogance to be dissatisfied with bliss What am I? That I find myself like a Danish price contemplating molecular physics If there could be but one thing through which I could reach from the tips of my toes to the ends of my ariels let it speak to me now or remain forever ephemeral Tempt me not with silence nor sentient reflection let me sit idle while a host of doubts with carousing inflections rend peace from the oath used to praise your perfection the redoubt of certainty a false satisfaction but I will seek it no less, lest my own moral code on the floor lie here prone
Be still
Who are you to challenge me? My own self? HA! You are nothing less than a vaporous belch, repudiation of the shelf from which this retched book of life was wrenched No the end for you can come not too soon unless it be for that which you are A cankerous man ***** feeding on the life that was not given but taken from others AND from yourself I know not you
Unless I do
Unless I do
For all that was, is and was, was mirage Smoke to the mirrors, dust in the sunshine caught by the exhaled breath of nothingness Cancer in the heart or lung make no difference to the boatman
BEGONE
Waste not my time with salutations nor grave maunderings on that which could have been nor with pleasantries and optimism I have no use for these baubles of ego
BEGONE I SAID
What would you be without meat to shrine that temple of mind? A magician? A sorcerer? Some glorified seamstress of witty offal set to ram fill mouths of the bantering rabble NO! I shall not cowtow to the nicetities of your excess, nor of mine Our colours are grey NOT black and white we shall drown beneath stone until resurrection day and even then we shall rot in our graves for there IS NO GOAD not to man, beast or rock NO GOAD that science shall not uncover, no lack that in wondrous doubt we shall **** to deny the self-evident fact that we are nothing and everything combined in one shell decomposing rapidly, a death knell for the self is the salutary cry for the immobile stone laid on my brow for the rustling tree for the wild fox and the mutated accessories to our loneliness they shall be freed and they shall feast upon our corpses and not a day too soon and not a day too soon so sayeth the bard from his everlasting gloom.