Negative one,
I am cold and I ask of you
What are all the ways,
That you keep yourself abused?
I have seen the scars,
of the one who was left behind
I have seen them fall,
In this bloodstained mind of mine

I have seen the spark,
The spark of a thousand flames
How do you find ways,
To never feel any shame?
I have felt the loss,
of the one who had many names
I have heard the chimes,
The echoes of my remains

The outcome you feared
The liquidity of choice
Another of your kingdoms
Sat under rattling bones

Soaking transmission
Coming from the mountains
Give what light is left
To slightly fill the fountains

Dried up by everything
Made clear by those who explore
That it's really not worth it
To stick around and implore

Life here has no beginning
Life here has no end
Just those vocal chords singing:
"There's only sand.
There's only sand.
There's only sand."

Pick your visits proudly
But don't you dare turn cowardly
Accept your faith lightly
Then you won't wither so loudly

These ghosts are neccessary
You wouldn't want them anywhere
Outside your mind chanting:
"There's no point, is there?
There's no point, is there?
There's no point, is there?"

Forced as the walls of past
Built upon foundations of dread
Antennas reaching for air
To at least entertain the dead

you are star, you are moon,
a blur of white in the rounded night,

tranquil as the narrow streets at nocturne,
where the tall streetlight breathes

its half-moon yellows, love flowers
behind frosty windows; behind

avenues of dark stone and gothic
eaves the dust of the moon

starts to settle, weaves a golden web.

How did I get here?
Did I build this place?
I'm on the highest cliff
Gazing down towards the skyline
The skyscrapers move like trains
Bound for regions unknown
Do they ever stop?
Where do they end up?

buried alive; (in) sane; or harakiri?

a trifecta of horror
cuts through the lush foliage while i
writhe in a nest of
eldritch entrails

anxiety
rises up like an ophidian
coils shedding every quarter of a noon
ready to strike -
i lose movement
and falter through the streets
the meeting rooms,
and the endless conversations that end in stalemates;

my anxiety
an ouroboros of volcanic self-effacement
spills into posh mental facilities (lies)
and shoddy hospitals that turn the sick into the living dead

humiliation
burns bright red (magenta)
and brands my delicate skin with age-old glyphs
they mark the end of a civilization

the birth of a metropolis
with twin suns and dark monoliths
where the mob guillotines the visionaries
and the artist dies a dog's death.

Normalcy is surreal
So surreal that it almost feels real
Trying to absorb it all
We get stuck in this timeless pitfall
In the end just callousing
If we could've done something different from it all.
.
.
.
Mehek