Ouroboros lived in a forest,
He could’ve been like anyone before us.
He lived his life filled with pride,
Masking plenty of issues on the inside.
Ouroboros always believed he was in the right,
Despite the many times he was on the wrong side,
He lived his life filled with pride.
A constant cycle,
In the shape of a circle.
He never learned from his mistakes,
He just brushed them off onto another day,
His friends and family wished he would change,
But he remained the same.
Ouroboros lived in a forest,
He convinced himself that it wasn’t due to his poor choices.
He could’ve been like anyone before us,
Poor Ouroboros.
A constant cycle of believing you're constantly in the right,
A never-ending circle consistently spinning because of pride.
Is it worth it to throw everything on the line,
Just because you can’t accept that your side,
Of the issue isn’t the only one on people’s minds?
Poor Ouroboros,
A somber chorus,
And the poor forest can’t ignore his cries.
All this strife due to pride.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

I am thinking to invite you for a cup of tea

      i  imagine how
                            slow
                                    the teapot will boil
                                                              on the stove

the steam will colonize the air in the room ~
                                                          conquer the silent walls

politely
          we’ll sit near the window at the little oak table
will
    support our elbows,
                                    hands ~  the chins,
    face-to-face,
                          like a frozen perfume
                                                            in the air,
reading into each other's eyes
                                                  ~ the dreams

after,
        watching how the leaves are falling
                                                                as if fainting

i get so lost in tomorrow
i keep forgetting
this is exactly what i wanted.
i become myself and become myself
til i blister -
it hurts but it's me.
i shed my skin, bite my tail,
and never learn.
i dig my nails under my face and
chase something i'll never earn.

A wolf in the bushes. A deer in the clearing.
      I know you are looking at me
        because I too am the wolf.

You know I know, because you are me in my knowing.
We are so quiet in our hiding, and yet the deer raises its head.
You sprint to me now.
Here our ever-loving, this sacred tragedy.

O beloved Ever-Creature,
Will you chase me into Godliness, or into the end of It?
I will chase you more–
My precious enemy, again and again.

Divine Ouroboros.

How fragile the leg that snaps, how ****** the neck torn.
You slip and I catch you. I fight and we die together.
The antlers today, the doe eye tomorrow.
Forever this day, no matter the way.

We are the running, the forest, the hooves and fang.
The twig that catches my leg, the corner that traps us.
God is when I **** you.
It is your teeth in my flesh, the tear in the widened eye– my precious thing, and then we do it all again.

A wolf in the bush. A deer in the clearing. You make no sound, but I know where you are. I lift my head and see you. I know you. I know you. I have always known you.

I asked her, why?

Why she couldn't hold my gaze
Despite the indescribable connection we feel for one another.

And she told me
That we were like two sides of the moon
Always longing, but never meant to even see each other.

And nothing good would come from the fight to understand
The fight to see one another.

The fight to stay alive as two halves of each other.

For we do not complete us
We love so deeply we swallow ourselves whole
Trying so desperately to have more of what we cannot have.

We are two polarities
And we cannot co-exist together
Not like this.

I bid her farewell
Leaving her only in my thoughts and in the sky
That I often see her in.

The moon never seemed so dark as it rushed  to four quarters
Of what it used to be.

-Kore

The ouroboros of eight,
mouth full, speaks forever
of doors and portals cautiously opened
from times past when scared eyes
scoured woodlands for sacred evergreen
and feasted to last the dark,
through the missionary rewording of the same,
to now, the snaking trucks
of the cola company

(These are what never was and could not be.)
This is the world that never was.
(We sit at the edge of the world.)
If one door opens when another door closes then does one door close when another one opens?
(We are at the beginning so it’s after the end.)
Before thought.After thought. Same life.
(Nothing left to do but swallow each other and ourselves whole.)
Let yourself be cut to ribbons.
(Harm one, heal the other.)
We consume ourselves constantly.
(We are never satisfied nor disappointed.)
What is unseen is known to all.
(Are you far enough yet to return?)
We’ll eat ourselves alive if we keep on doing this.
(Good.I’m tired of all this, so let’s start again.)
We sit at the edge of the world.
(This is the world that never was.)

Nothing matters.
Therefore, everything matters.

The world is devoid of meaning,
except for the meaning we give it.

Whatever we do, whatever transpires,
all is an act of

*holiness.

We are creators, we are the ones who create.
We are He, we are She, we are all, we are none.


All is change.
Permanence is found in impermanence.
There is no death.
Only a change in form.

I sit and ride the wave.