Aug 2021
1-1.
Candles shining their share of darknesses
which flicker eternity, fate and existance
one mere reflection of multiversed various matters their light deciphers
eventually
archived deeply within her, saved
nurtured by her pregnance
indices, networks, lexical channels
cross to the Present from long before, prior the Past of Pasts
as she unifies time so far past the Future
when cryptic the numbers that dictate the dates chiseled in
the motherbase library instances cluster
the bedrock scarred by the Titans
expressiveness is.
1-2.
Inexhaustive is
even the variant impression of hers no mortal's letters bear to ever be formally read
where synchronous, tomes over tome-structured serpents
they chant and they slither,
atop each tip of their mercury-tongues
the source of their sorcery springs;
these quills along it sickers their choir
it dances their rhythm of arrows and quivers
down to the point, their spells arc over
over to one another and each.
Enchained by its miracle night sky attire
this is their song that sails it forever
an ink as quick as it is,
their voices, the voices the countlessnesses whail
their haunt what echoes their catacombs, tomb of tomes
as they word her
complex as she is
the one, and ever-written
englyphed by the buried,
terminal line.
1-3.
This is her.
The Compendia Cornucopia
Matrix herself,
the impression of hers reborn in each shadow and candle light battling
shivers from the heat of all crashing comets
composing entire collections of ambivalent legends
contradictionaries filling the infinite eras in darknesses endless
a void unable to be said to devour anymore
as it mocks the Box of Pandora?
To praise, to fear or to wrath
boundaries errendous like those without any sort of conscious control
Definitely, absolutely, not meant to not fail her laws in an indefinite manner,
reality's engine tireless
unbrokenly, until the death blueprint of clockwork causality, destruction unfolds
deemed to die her destiny, duty so certain
demolished architecture crumbling, designed to eventually
more and more with each day
being fading away, and soon will be over
and never be.
What paradox is it which she holds?
More and more with each day
their haunt what echoes their
indices, networks, lexical channels
prior the Past of Pasts
the children are crying the tears
they run down their cheeks
what is it that they see
who it is they yearnfully call
and dreadfully need?
1-4. [ 2-1? ]
Night sky's navy inscriptions charting a galaxy's tiniest stars in the skins of their arch giants
scrolls bescrawled, figures of clay cast shadows distorted to silhouettes
very specific beauty
as feathers mean flight, so grounding, coals shine their nocturnal shade by their draft's borders loyal to candle's preciously precise sculpturist's accuracy.
Ancient books, old pages, licking
feebling the switchy sheets one lone index finger ages throughout
and observing, sorting, evaluating, rearranging numbers
their patterns finally reveal them
the sacred symbols' shape,
one by one, banished its true name's shape
Born from Chaos, their fruits bearing,
ripe is the time not then, but now!
Table-turning, pages turned in billions
prospected just for the chance of a clue
where to begin, to arrive,
just something to simply suppose
a million books' proposes in pieces
of pattern pieces once puzzling
and now,
eventually ready.
Candles shining their share of darknesses
which flicker eternity, fate and existance
one mere reflection of multiversed various matters their light deciphers
eventually
archived deeply within her, saved
nurtured by her pregnance
indices, networks, lexical channels
cross to the Present from long before, prior the Past of Pasts
as she unifies time so far past the Future
when cryptic the numbers that dictate the dates chiseled in
the motherbase library instances cluster
the bedrock scarred by the Titans
expressiveness is.
1-2.
Inexhaustive is
even the variant impression of hers no mortal's letters bear to ever be formally read
where synchronous, tomes over tome-structured serpents
they chant and they slither,
atop each tip of their mercury-tongues
the source of their sorcery springs;
these quills along it sickers their choir
it dances their rhythm of arrows and quivers
down to the point, their spells arc over
over to one another and each.
Enchained by its miracle night sky attire
this is their song that sails it forever
an ink as quick as it is,
their voices, the voices the countlessnesses whail
their haunt what echoes their catacombs, tomb of tomes
as they word her
complex as she is
the one, and ever-written
englyphed by the buried,
terminal line.
1-3.
This is her.
The Compendia Cornucopia
Matrix herself,
the impression of hers reborn in each shadow and candle light battling
shivers from the heat of all crashing comets
composing entire collections of ambivalent legends
contradictionaries filling the infinite eras in darknesses endless
a void unable to be said to devour anymore
as it mocks the Box of Pandora?
To praise, to fear or to wrath
boundaries errendous like those without any sort of conscious control
Definitely, absolutely, not meant to not fail her laws in an indefinite manner,
reality's engine tireless
unbrokenly, until the death blueprint of clockwork causality, destruction unfolds
deemed to die her destiny, duty so certain
demolished architecture crumbling, designed to eventually
more and more with each day
being fading away, and soon will be over
and never be.
What paradox is it which she holds?
More and more with each day
their haunt what echoes their
indices, networks, lexical channels
prior the Past of Pasts
the children are crying the tears
they run down their cheeks
what is it that they see
who it is they yearnfully call
and dreadfully need?
1-4. [ 2-1? ]
Night sky's navy inscriptions charting a galaxy's tiniest stars in the skins of their arch giants
scrolls bescrawled, figures of clay cast shadows distorted to silhouettes
very specific beauty
as feathers mean flight, so grounding, coals shine their nocturnal shade by their draft's borders loyal to candle's preciously precise sculpturist's accuracy.
Ancient books, old pages, licking
feebling the switchy sheets one lone index finger ages throughout
and observing, sorting, evaluating, rearranging numbers
their patterns finally reveal them
the sacred symbols' shape,
one by one, banished its true name's shape
Born from Chaos, their fruits bearing,
ripe is the time not then, but now!
Table-turning, pages turned in billions
prospected just for the chance of a clue
where to begin, to arrive,
just something to simply suppose
a million books' proposes in pieces
of pattern pieces once puzzling
and now,
eventually ready.
