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I’m still choking on my own blood.

As it slowly fills my lungs.

I am drowning inside myself

The blood is mine; 
the air is gone,

Now so am I.

After death, there’s nothing more than that same familiar empty space 

waiting for your thoughts to refill it

Infinite & Eternal 
in every direction;
both up and down and beyond before.

encircled by the horizon.

This emptiness where your awareness doesn’t so much ‘go’ 
as recollect that it’s always been here.

look through this persisting dream! 

there is no afterlife because nothing, 

not even memory, is really destroyed.

just transformed 
into particles

into wavicles 

into higher frequencies,

your mind no longer fathoms,
so you leave 
your mind behind.





your awareness is the fifth state of matter.
There’s a comforting concept of metempsychosis
The spirit moves on while the flesh decomposes
But the birth rate’s exceeded
So new souls are needed
And this is the number one problem it poses
There’s more than one method to meet the divine
The road to salvation is not a straight line
Skeptics, recall
Worship no god at all
While the foolish insist that there’s no god but mine
Latch on to life if your ardor is able
Every last option remains on the table
The one became real
With the turn of a wheel
And someday will come when the truth becomes fable
Homunculus Jan 7
Enraptured in
a fevered spasm,

Captured in the
mind's phantasm,

Swimming through
the ectoplasm,

Pouring from the
roaring chasm,

Hidden in the
soul's recess

A subtle, gentle,
warm caress

So jubilant, it  
doth redress,

The hindrances which
so suppress,

The progress of the
spirit's wellness,

Showing things which
words can't tell us,

Giving gifts, which
none can sell us,

Do you
hear the
bell that's
              from a

It resonates from
mammoth spheres,

In orbit, shedding
countless years,

Through aeons of

And boundless

We see how worlds
arise and cease,

We see how yearning
lays the fleece,

The wool over the eyes,
deceiving, cool

Dispassion's peace
relieving, our

Great webs
of pain and sorrow,

to light the morrow

For as all things
must come apart,

So suffering's,
great work of art,

is merely but
a transience,

receding slowly
in the dark.
The current of life always flowing
The river remains, the water keeps going
Escapes from your hand
Turning rocks into sand
Its secret is something worth knowing
The sun you glued your eye on
Is but a burning dirt
Docked and stranded
In the visage of space
The soul you took care of
Is but a mild breeze
Loaded in the brain
Discharged in the ****
The love you boasted of
Is but a futile teardrop
Watering the weeds
In the garden of her charm.
someguy Oct 2018
Am I dead, or am I alive,
Do I exist, or am I a dream,
Inside someone’s head for just a while

Where do I go, where do I flee,
I do not know, I do not feel

No answers given, only questions,
And through the unbearable longing this pain tortures
zen Sep 2018
The Steppenwolfs' stepson
no stranger to the strange,
strangled in thought
and a raving wonder,
was the custom of his gaze.

The specter of Mozart's laughter
bellowed loudly,
lamping light on every cloud,  
the dawn of every day,
could be trestled in his smile.

Flirting with divine perfection,
ruminating in awe,
of his sublime imaginings
nesting soundly in his noose
wolf of the steppes, man or immortal
zen Aug 2018
From whom are you wanderer?
The road on which you unravel,
and on the brim of infinity
the body becomes nest for neighboring
Ineffable, microscopic, macroscopic
And in the (in) between
on the peak of no where the whole widens,
the well wanes a wish deeper,
All the while
diamonds crest beneath aim
Gold, my galore...
of whom, are you
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