Dec 2012
The east bequeaths us life and light.
Many rise from slumber, in agony. Many greet daybreak with compassion and hold the world close as if it were an old friend. The lights of the city shine bright, stars in the day and of the night. A holy cacophony of exuberant sonances.
A million more flashing lights surround us. Another lonely room illuminated with images of pills, sugary snacks and loan sharks. Disillusioned and malnourished we tread softly on thin plates of ice, ever drifting further from the source of life.
A man flies to Botswana, another to Yamalia. Forever in search of truth, history, refinement and happiness. One lady prays to God, another preys on a new victim. One man dies, another is born. One person writes poetry while another deconstructs the economic and social barriers that prevent many from ideals that, not one man, but many people search for.
To say I am all these people is lie. To say we are all the same would be a bigger lie. But to say we all seek truth is undeniable.
In the west, the world rests.
The people of pain lay their tender heads on pillows of self doubt whilst their counterparts caress the soft jaw line of the heavenly death. To sleep once more in fleeting rest. The lights of the city shine bright, stars in the day and of the night. Each soft noise amplified tenfold in the vacant sprawling streets, tinged orange and creaking like so many spirits tied to the eternal noose.
Tell me please, did the virginal angel take your hand and walk you through the narrow corridor of dreams and death? Did she tell of of your fate, your future and your meaning? Did she kiss your solemn lips and allow you to place your head to her *****?
O mother of the Earth, tell me your grandiose plan. Am I a cog placed concisely in the machinery of life or am I merely a superfluous button on the vest of some ancient God?
Spoken once in dissonant transient prayers. The mind incapable of rest continues to conjure images so appealing and yet so ghastly. Flight and failure, love and despair. Each one fades upon the first light of morning.
Waking in despondency,
fingers smeared across red, stinging eyes,
thick crimson lines betray your mind.
The first lie is told as we raise our heavy heads,
allow the light from the east to guide you on your daily path,
and let the lies cascade from windows, rooftops, trees and great unholy structures.
I lie to myself each morning.
I am you, you are simultaneously him and her, she is I and I am her. He is I, I am him and he shall always be we.
The angels speak of all their plans in great halls of marble and ice. The swords and shields of a million warriors line the walls. Books of a million more great people are the furnishings in such a palace. The great waterfalls provide the purist of refreshment to the guests of the seraph. Mountains and catacombs alike, are the ornaments of this great hearth. A billion buzzing beings attract the attention of a distant messenger.
For today we shall learn.
∞
Many rise from slumber, in agony. Many greet daybreak with compassion and hold the world close as if it were an old friend. The lights of the city shine bright, stars in the day and of the night. A holy cacophony of exuberant sonances.
A million more flashing lights surround us. Another lonely room illuminated with images of pills, sugary snacks and loan sharks. Disillusioned and malnourished we tread softly on thin plates of ice, ever drifting further from the source of life.
A man flies to Botswana, another to Yamalia. Forever in search of truth, history, refinement and happiness. One lady prays to God, another preys on a new victim. One man dies, another is born. One person writes poetry while another deconstructs the economic and social barriers that prevent many from ideals that, not one man, but many people search for.
To say I am all these people is lie. To say we are all the same would be a bigger lie. But to say we all seek truth is undeniable.
In the west, the world rests.
The people of pain lay their tender heads on pillows of self doubt whilst their counterparts caress the soft jaw line of the heavenly death. To sleep once more in fleeting rest. The lights of the city shine bright, stars in the day and of the night. Each soft noise amplified tenfold in the vacant sprawling streets, tinged orange and creaking like so many spirits tied to the eternal noose.
Tell me please, did the virginal angel take your hand and walk you through the narrow corridor of dreams and death? Did she tell of of your fate, your future and your meaning? Did she kiss your solemn lips and allow you to place your head to her *****?
O mother of the Earth, tell me your grandiose plan. Am I a cog placed concisely in the machinery of life or am I merely a superfluous button on the vest of some ancient God?
Spoken once in dissonant transient prayers. The mind incapable of rest continues to conjure images so appealing and yet so ghastly. Flight and failure, love and despair. Each one fades upon the first light of morning.
Waking in despondency,
fingers smeared across red, stinging eyes,
thick crimson lines betray your mind.
The first lie is told as we raise our heavy heads,
allow the light from the east to guide you on your daily path,
and let the lies cascade from windows, rooftops, trees and great unholy structures.
I lie to myself each morning.
I am you, you are simultaneously him and her, she is I and I am her. He is I, I am him and he shall always be we.
The angels speak of all their plans in great halls of marble and ice. The swords and shields of a million warriors line the walls. Books of a million more great people are the furnishings in such a palace. The great waterfalls provide the purist of refreshment to the guests of the seraph. Mountains and catacombs alike, are the ornaments of this great hearth. A billion buzzing beings attract the attention of a distant messenger.
For today we shall learn.
∞
