Sep 2014
Born into a world colder then glacial tidal waves, yet naked in the sun of tomorrows we forever wait.
Wondering where the light began, how the showing of brightness produced the fractal pattern complexity unending.
Blink, but do not give away illumination for the lone black vacuum tumultuous constant of anti-nothing that cradles all things with mass.
Holdfast to logical constructs that articulate a suitable fashion, not those worn until their withered threads broke the binding of founding to an untested journey of life.
Of, intentional sacrifice of habitual mainstays that dust has long removed the visible passion to once it had belonged.
A burning inside for something tangible that out runs a heart alluding capture at every grasp.
How does one contain a pyroclastic flow of emotions that pour from a soul breaking oceans down to their knees, vomiting dirt and dust, while begging the stubborn clouds for water?
"We owe no compensation for the loss of liquid you horde, for the cost required to return you cannot afford".
Much too is the passion of a human heart, hasty to burn in a quickened rush, ending in an overly lamented rust.
But not all fires simply burn out, some roar, some kick, and many shout, and it is not the fear that they will die.
It is the belief that something ancient pulls through the lone black nothing to those born of even stranger tides igniting a raging inferno.
Showing candles burned at both ends can begin old emotions in young hearts that have never known a solid direction for passions unbound by limitations of vacuum insanity.
Wondering where the light began, how the showing of brightness produced the fractal pattern complexity unending.
Blink, but do not give away illumination for the lone black vacuum tumultuous constant of anti-nothing that cradles all things with mass.
Holdfast to logical constructs that articulate a suitable fashion, not those worn until their withered threads broke the binding of founding to an untested journey of life.
Of, intentional sacrifice of habitual mainstays that dust has long removed the visible passion to once it had belonged.
A burning inside for something tangible that out runs a heart alluding capture at every grasp.
How does one contain a pyroclastic flow of emotions that pour from a soul breaking oceans down to their knees, vomiting dirt and dust, while begging the stubborn clouds for water?
"We owe no compensation for the loss of liquid you horde, for the cost required to return you cannot afford".
Much too is the passion of a human heart, hasty to burn in a quickened rush, ending in an overly lamented rust.
But not all fires simply burn out, some roar, some kick, and many shout, and it is not the fear that they will die.
It is the belief that something ancient pulls through the lone black nothing to those born of even stranger tides igniting a raging inferno.
Showing candles burned at both ends can begin old emotions in young hearts that have never known a solid direction for passions unbound by limitations of vacuum insanity.
