The wizened old man told me -
sustain the weary with a word
for many a one has none
to bring love and light
into the blight of their dreary days.

I asked which word
and through a wan smile
he said - you figure it out.

re
It's all too trippy. ever and every. real really very verily.

Whatifery , that is, was that nearly killed the self-willed,
heretics, that did it and what was blamed,
what
was there
to just ify any reason to doubt that all things work, f'good;
friction and forces and all the ideas
we imagine in all, the set. Thattharity should have started with
one of those inverted quest ahead signs
the point with a hook
baitless, a warning for the un-a-wared,
betas are allowed
--stip stip ulate free will restraints
only if compliant with 7th gen Feynman second chance
Nandmazearrays.
Do overs are included, until sleep arrives.

The story is a single thread. Shredded.
Cut into tiny bits, time tic quanta,
so now it works, the thread
of thought, works
like magnetic legos.
It's all been better than ever for a while,
it's just beginning to soak in.

That old man said his side won and
****** If I don't believe
he knew befo he bet. re

I lost myself in your quest,
Fate denied what was mine..

Burning within was a heart that died,
Leaving scars that did not lie..

Leaving me helpless,
In this world full of dead..

You went ahead,
Driven by your desires..

I was left alone once again,
Not to be ruptured but trained..

Finding myself was again a task,
Losing to you wasn't that hard..

Hath not I let go of my emotions,
I would still have had the chances of resurrection..

Nobody could enter this prickled heart,
The reason you were lone inside this ruined turret..

You awakened me, repainted my soul,
Made me strong enough to hold myself..

Then left me alone in the wild sea,
Never to come back..

The first few days were hard,
The struggle real with the wretched pains..

Love is not a bed of roses but of thorns,
You showed it right and held me tight..

For it helped me rise and fight again,
Tame the waves and tide again..

You left me to thrive,
I soared higher to cry..

You set my soul ablaze,
And cut my chains..

You were a traveller who settled,
And I became the restless bird of passage….

Down with fever on a Saturday night,
I just wish for a glance of her soothing light.
No pleasure is perpetual.
Grief stricken, hopeless I’m,
Began a quest -
A cry for immortal bliss.

Journey is long,
Slowly showing its toll.
Ageing rapidly through the time,
Revealing her tenacious paradigm.

Where is the money,
For it can bring only agony.
Peace is temporary,
And they say war is necessary.
Why shall I agree to her words
which are equally scary.

This life, finite in its expression,
Caught up in some pseudo socialism.
Through intangible portals of death and rebirth,
How do I transcend this dualism!

For nothing interests me more,
Come blindfold me with your lore.
I was never free,
And they wish that I could flee.

You don’t get it, or do you.
Might wonder I’m in folly,
Driven by insanity.
Take a step back,
Or will you rather not.

World is filled with dejection,
Still I hope for serenity,
Coz I'm ******* by this ****** lunacy.

As she laughed at this mighty plight,
And I cried through my whole night,
Wishing for a bliss that's eternal.
But settled for a song that's so mortal.

dwelling in a bathtub full of ember
skin, transparent like a plastic raincoat
max' core is a cage, his mouth like a cave
tags are scratched into his hands

he is walking over liquid letters, since
doctors replaced his blood with milk
cats are drinking from his open wounds
max is asking the mirror:

who could i be?
who do i want to be?
what will i become?
who am i now?

his memories are windows
the head is mutating, it will explode
thoughts are gobbling thoughts
wishes **** other wishes

the young max longed to be old
the old max wants to be young
a life, hidden in a purple casket
secrets drive each of his moves

addicted to the white magic of death
self-destructive, not trustworthy
he exchanged his kids against trance
sirens are singing songs of oblivion

take him away from this journey
trapped is he in placelessness
he became the thing he dreaded
nightmares are haunting his dignity

will his actions turn into an epitaph?
a funeral, under the heaven of his skin

Mother, I feel your pain
Your grief
It's coursing through my veins
As if I must take it away;
It has become my quest
Until this body turns to dust.

Oh, Mother, I am living sores of yours,
Feeling it all
Deep in my core.
Never thought of having a choice
Until I've discovered the voice
Of my own.

Mother, your sadness soaks through my bones
The very marrow of those
Yet through time that flowed
Between then and now
I realised I am owed
To pave the roads
Of my own.

Sometimes, what we have left are regrets.
Indeed they don't come first.
But living without getting pressed
       is tantamount to a horrifying quest.

It's 6:12
I'm old guy high, clearly in an altered state,
yet
meandering
fractally indentical
taste in dramatic pre-
sent-sations
satiate my
wish is
your command, and in this state you find
the man,
ecce ****, at home with his books,
we look in on him through all
the lockedinlemmeites let
loose in wisdom's grandest scheme,

patience, yes, and prudence, along with fire,
Prometheus, thought ahead, knew ahead,
need for patience forms patience in
tiny, tiny, fizzy foamy quantum of hope,
nee solace, in the drama, using legos,

I watched  as my grandson told of his mission,
listen, when grandpa says listen.
How is this your mission?
You made me know it, so I do, that's the way it works.
He is four, who has will to ask for more?