What force
would move you
to wakefulness
at dawn?

What force
would have such power
to keep your consciousness on?

Is it just the mind,
or is it deeper?

You know what
and you know why
So just keep on
and Listen.

The first attempt ended in nothingness. Ribbons flowed from the belly of mother hollow, and though they grasped at their own absence, their fingers broke like brittle leaves, returning to the mother’s flesh.
This was the birth of change.
The second attempt ended in madness. Shadows rose out of the nothingness in waves and cascaded into pools of being, but when being opened its eyes and saw its image, it let out a threshing scream.
This was the birth of separation.
The third attempt ended in lack. Fire poured from the cosmic maw and baked earth to blood; flesh gorged on itself, and pale figures gripped the edges of rivers, gaping at one another, unable to speak.
This was the birth of despair.
The last attempt ended in man; and nothing birthed after it.


Appended File

Source states the archaeologist was investigating the Mariana Trench. Strangely, he began displaying symptoms of decompression sickness on the descent. His state worsened, but, due to his insistence, the pilot continued the mission. The archaeologist began recounting, in “muddled and broken speech”, accounts of his wife and children. In interviews conducted after the incident, colleagues claim to have never met any persons matching such descriptions. Soon after, the archaeologist collapsed. The pilot recounts, in a shaken tone, “By all means he was out. Like—I called to him, you know.” When asked why he did not administer first aid, the pilot replied “I couldn’t st—he was out cold, I ******* swear. I didn’t notice it at first, moving my hand over his face, you know—staring into space. I grabbed the kit, turned back, and that’s when it hit me. His eyes weren’t glazed, they were fixed on me. Tracking me. Like—those weren’t his eyes, anymore.” When asked to expand on this, the pilot broke down and had to be escorted from the room. The archaeologist has yet to awaken from his coma. It should be noted his eyes are closed.

— 37, Male. Cairo, Egypt.

Starting is hard
Growth maltese candles
The painted board next to me
Where i sleep
Cars, unrelenting bring an incessant drone
That lulls
Exstasis
Mechanised intrusion grants
The brevity of randomized input
The aversion of direction
This isn't a poem
Nor is it not a poem
This is a home
This is a home
Shampoo crease salt licks
Salt salt salt salt salt salt salt
Salt salt salt salt salt salt salt
Not that but there was something else.
Not what just happened but something else
I remember when i try not to.
I always forget when i try.
I can feel it
It's not suppose to be remembered
It's there to be felt
Something like that
Something similar
Im not going to just say 'something' on a single line
Nope no.
Nothing
That was ordained
Now this is nonsensical
As if any of it was.
Reading
Nothing yet
Nothing worth saying
Yet
Yet.
Yes
Ending is hard

It feels like sand on my breath
Like dunes in my chest
They are silent
But they are not still
Heaving gross quarter
Leaking for most water
The unscratchable itch
Can it be denied, of which
I am left outside, neck twitch.
Hands force paint in from closed 4 seaters
Enough
Enough
It subsides
As do my words
Am i anything without my words
Would i choose words over feeling
He said, as all the dry paint dripped from the ceiling
And there was love.
Nestled in the corner
A concave attitude begged no less of what there was to offer.
And we gave and gave.
Stretched innards in closed fists
Adorned by salesman with neat.
With neat.
Withering, neat.
Forgiven heat.
Not much to give
But we must eat.
Die and let live
For the succession of wheat.
Basket bare more than their share.
While the humans are simply denied theirs.
When.
When does this part end.
Soon i hope.
As if there were something.
Something to be had.
After.
Besides the calm. When the calm let's us notice our own distaste in it.
Not that the tree trunk needed that.
That hug.
But it helped the armless. Armless.
Or was it a kiss.
The mouthless.
Something dark.
Force them to spit.
Ask them to sit.
Did that have to rhyme. Did any of this have to. Did it take away. From
Take away from.
Cultured eyed breast sore
Vultures hide crest something

blocked, days now and frustrated as hell
how tiring to pour so effortlessly for months
and then the desert comes through pulling
everything from the scape.
sure, there's blooming going on
and the flowers out front are red and yellow
the crepes are starting to burst
and the grass is green, but my words keep dying.

cancer maybe, eating the page as if it were a white blood cell
nothing but black mire in its path and wasted time.
the screen laughs of course, and i grow angrier, my time taxed.
lunch hours dry as a bone. admin watching and me keeping silent
about my passion.
what will it take? i am not van gogh and don't have the muse
for which to segment.
maybe time, that old benefactor, so patient, he passes and eventually
the words reappear, chasing a black cloud of darkness.
why then? that is maybe where it lies, the truth.
why when things are at their darkest am i so quick to spill?
of course what comes out is often unsavory and sour,
but
the souls eat that up.
you're dark they say, and i laugh, because they know nothing.
so when then? when shall i expect their hardy return?
i guess to hold tight is my only choice. transitions everywhere
literally and figuratively. summer itself bringing professional shift.
earlier days brought round and sunrises rushed, life constraints.
i'll wait though, be patient, as i've been for so long now, howling
only occasionally.

When we rise from the depths of space the question of certainty derives from the state of questionable thought.
Glossy images fall to a puzzle of understanding.
While loves hold together in the center of our hearts.
Our mind a process of learned behavior.
The core of a child's laughter one from the very center

Rain soaks the ceiling
Falls into the air like crashing jets
Black red white

Smoke collapses
Children break their teeth
The earth screams

They touch their tongues
It’s a sign of affection
Like oil
Or maybe kerosene
Some time later
The streets cover with ash

I try to speak

And then I  woke up in an ethereal hour,
As the sublime scent of a wild flower,
After roaming through many many lives,
As insects, birds and many kinds of animals,

When I by chance stumbled in to her eye
It was love, with out knowing who or why
In a  moment I mingled with her deep sigh
Such was the  alchemy, we soared to a level high

Later after many lifetimes of stars and many cycles,
Held within the depth of a dream, I realize this:
All I now need is a piece of tranquil blue sky,
to dissolve all clouds of avatars, be immortality, never to die.

I am an infinite consciousness
And a
Never before seen phenomenon -