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4.4k · Jun 2018
He is infallible,
A Caesarean man,
Reading the palms of fate in Christlike fashion.

The perfect product of devolution,
The highest of the higher men,
Tossing wrenches into the system of collapse.

He justifies humanity and its suffering,
With his sheer existence.

The Overman is an automaton,
A dynamo for suicide.
The Overman is a god,
Drip-feeding divine bile into our IV bag.
Still editing bits of it.
2.7k · Jun 2019
O Friends of Twilight!
Though I arc and swell and bloom,
And move replete with daylight gifted-
A new shadow, melancholy in its fume,
Strongly pervades on this day now shifted.
Enkindle and sing, O dawn-awoken bones!-
Guide me through the salt and midnight!-
As above, a tide surfeit with unknowns
Is broken upon this reflecting man's sight!
Why covet my blisses, O familiar void?
And why those lazy eyes of envy, time?
Your long sleep and anemia I once enjoyed,
But here stands life, rushing and sublime!-
And here stands the martyr and saint:
Affirmed and illuminated in cause!-
For all other passions and peaks have a taint
Where deep nothingness winds and draws.
And why pray and descend, great nullity?
Why whisper and comfort and be at all?
The weak may come for your amity,
But death perfumes in your beckon and call!
When day betrays with days untold-
How the entropic rib impels us to be dust!
For day fools every pestled grain and ill old,
Curving and embracing them on a gust—
There! I have unmasked you, turning suns!
Your enthralling gaze, your simple hold!
Here are your cowardly, apathetic ones,
In your hands does their low course unfold!
They fear when one is most visible-
Why fear afternoon, O friends of twilight?
Do you not find this loaded sky risible?
Why love only as ghosts and strange night?
Save longing and fully comprehend:
Life is the tug of the eternal and the swift-
You must move, you must love and bend-
And, like the others, you must be adrift!
He who is high and most abounding,
Has the least of false shades cast on him:
The shade of the feeble, idle yet sounding-
Do not deny yourself- you've only grown dim-
Night! Come night and friends dotted within!
I have taught well—burn amongst me here!
Bound muscle and growth and sun akin!
Here is nature—warm and without veneer!
This took a little over a month to make. I hope you all enjoy reading it. This will most likely be my last post for a bit as this took a lot of creative energy- I won't be gone too long. Special thank you to Mc6lm for early input.

I love you all
- Darrell
2.4k · Aug 2018
Sculptors And Their Books
You were let into my soul to sculpt it; I was a sculptor myself till you arrived, a master, yet an amateur.
I was a sculptor who wouldn't sculpt his soul, as the act seemed pointless.
Nonetheless, I sculpted something which resembled the human soul, but it was a lazy thing; plain and egotistic in its nature.
Then you came building masterpieces, and you constructed a radiant and captivating palace out of my soul.
Yet, it was of a foreign material; not of me, but of you and your soul.
You made my soul into that which can be weighed and judged by those who would not measure or assess themselves.

Don't look at me lonely sculptor, I see your resentment, but I also sense your jealousy!
You long to be me, so you meld into my eyes to see how only an amateur can!

All masters wish to be amateurs again, they crave the thrill of mistake, and so mistake blesses them with release.
All masters return to life as amateurs; all masters secretly sculpt themselves inside those they create.
All masters are born into themselves again, not by mothers, but by us.
Trying a new way of writing, still undecided on it.
2.4k · Aug 2018
A Drum Made Of Skin
The walls crack and chip around me,
The paint peels from its home,
An old radio sits on a table nearby,
A relic of a time I could never be part of.

When my father dies, I will be the only one who looks like him.
I'll decay and become a relic, I'll be just like my father.
I'll be like that radio, the walls, and paint.
I'll be a drum made of skin, echoing my lost generation.
2.1k · Jul 2018
Ground To Mind
You've laid in numerous beds,
Stalks sprouted from every one of them,
Endless pedestals of life from where yours bled into them.

There is your final bed,
A place where the flora of your memory shall eternally permeate,
Flowing- unchallenged, into my mind.

And when the resounding influence of you enters,
And I am overwhelmed with you, I shall say:
"Give me your bed, and let me be your vessel!"
From time alone is man defined
 As the diffused flash of a holy duality.
Brother to ripe olives, a likeness of reality,
 Lucid in face, yet mortally blind.

Ebbing spirit and cohorts around:
 Pluck these eyes with a degree of care.
For feeling your hands lays one bare—
 To know its touch is to know the mound.

Our embrace is a wicked aspect of fate—
 An animal breeze clouded as amity.
Some recoil at their light, at their brevity,
 Yet these ponderers fall ever straight.

What star beams to wilting lovers
 Who adjoin for this brief act and jest?
A way-lighting keeper for ease and rest,
 Or a gaze behind for what love uncovers?

What limb hangs and endures to bind
 This dream and moon-this eve entire?
When wind lofts slumbers' soothing lyre,
 Number it among the illusions of the mind.

What cruel earth cracks with greeting
 While swallowing our infant yearning?
O coming mass, O firmament ever-churning,
 Bound and seize us! We are fleeting!-

Fleeting into the dance of earthly gloom,
 Winding about—pining behind the flesh-
Reifying the world in gesture and thresh.
 What sum am I, branch—again in bloom?
"Continual awareness of all time and space, of the size and lifespan of the things around us. A grape seed in infinite space. A half twist of a corkscrew against eternity."
—Marcus Aurelius
Sorry that it took over a week for me to upload this after my last post; I've been sick lately and haven't found the energy for much of anything. Anyway, hope you all enjoy this one- it might look better if you turn your phone if you're on mobile.
As I sit here and write this, I can look up and observe the people around me, physical and non-physical. They each have stories, a life, family, struggles, and triumphs. This sheer fact makes me exhausted from its truth and the anxiety it instills. Part of me wants to hear from all of them, to treat them like lost relatives and soothe them. The other part wants nothing to do with them.
Their actions seem so mechanical and predetermined as if they've always known which way to steer themselves; ancient captains of inactive ships who've moved on to more tedious things. How can I carry myself in the same manner? How can I be mechanical and predestined?...
The lightning streaking like highways across the sky tells me that it's time to stop writing. Lightning is millions of interlocked arms which reach down from the heavens to grab the unlucky. The arms which protrude from this line grasp uselessly at nothing. I am an arm which extrudes from an arm; I grasp uselessly at those around me in an attempt to capture a piece of them. Like a starving plant, or a parasite that devours eyes.
I consider these to be more journal entry than poetry.
2.0k · Aug 2018
The Beggar Chooses
A starving beggar begs for food;
He turns away the man who offers a corpse to eat.
The beggar says, "I will not eat a corpse! I am no animal!"
The man responds with, "You said you're hungry, so I brought you food.
You're far too picky."
A solution to your predicament has already presented itself,
You disregard it because it's not the one you wanted.
1.8k · Sep 2019
The Hymnist
Within and beside me travels totality-
Thus, I seek to find in the glinting dew,
Bound by the Lord's writ and causality,
A duality of essence to reflect the true:
Speak, you hymns of life—attest of death!
Trickle from the laborer's stony head;
Lace the droplets of the hunter's breath-
Thieve alike of the wakeful and dead;
Drive the marble into a drought of kings,
And panic to sand every skin and thread.
Push us wide from the knives cold lip,
As the revealing held in its ageless frame
Harkens to its framer—a muse lent grip-
In-kind do you utter, in all ilk and name;
Through nail, cobweb, and ocean clear:
Only lesser gleanings of your vast claim-
So nag the heels of rooted oak and man-
Pilfer the branch, the white bird, the wine;
The book, the body, and the dark they span.
Hail from beyond the olive and the vine,
To us, who lay grim in your tribulation,
And to our posterity, set in eternal brine:
Heave high this winter—low this summer,
Heave high this night—low this ample day!
Hear these ring on from the lone drummer,
Your holy summons, all you lambs of clay!
Sorry that I've been a bit inactive on here, this is all I've got for now.
1.7k · Aug 2019
Cherub Lament
Hastening through a sunlit rift,
Onwards goes the moment-made drift!-
Run humming through this temporal cloak,
Hung amid sleepy trees, O wind of being!-
Take up these men like wisps of smoke,
Lift them past vernal reflections, fleeing.

When loft in morning or loft at sea,
Split them in lie and bough at every degree.
Bid them lay as mirrored days in wilt-
Perceiving their vastness as it grows:
Cast in all visages, mused in the astral quilt,
—Unfolded in antiquity and ill repose.

A weary infinite set in wander,
Yielding devotion to those who ponder.
Blessed nausea, turn to those who brood,
For they count the soul's delusive reach.
Oh, how that eager soul and still hand feud,
Even when beholding the swelling breach!-

In cherub lament, what must you do?-
Tread, and mind death—for it minds you.
If all is comedy, may dawn be amusing.
If all is tragedy, may dusk be a reprieve.
Though you sift each at your choosing,
Evoke this reflection: —laugh or grieve!
I told myself that I'd be back when I'd written at least three poems. Over the course of the last month, I wrote only two- this and another one which shall be uploaded in the coming days. A word about the book: I decided to part with my original publisher for a multitude of reasons. The plan for the book is still on. I simply need to find a new publisher or learn to self publish.
1.6k · Oct 2018
Bits and Pieces #4
After drawing my interpretation of oxygen, a man stopped beside me and said: "I am insulted by the curving nature of infinity; my mother lives in my bones- I have become her womb.
I am the sepulcher of my ancestors."
He then plucked his eyes and walked backward into the ocean.
I wanted this here before I took my little hiatus.
I wrote this very late one night and haven't found the appropriate place for it.
1.6k · Jul 2018
Lisbon Café
She'll leave this place and never give me extra thought.
Then I'll imagine that I knew her, never possessed her, just knew her.
She isn't genuine, not the variant of her inside me.
Perhaps, that is more genuine than the original thing.
She's somewhere else in time, engraved on the days of a thousand others;
Somewhere in the lull between expression and remembrance,
She frightens me to no end.

Waving- she's waving to me.
And I am troubled, and I am disappointed.
1.5k · Oct 2019
A Hymn to Heraclitus
The eternal sets roots within stirring sands,
Fraying the stars from their dark nurse;
All lay conjured by these penning hands,
Setting forth their sacred motions in verse.
How fates glimmering rains rushed over us,
And we endured of marble and heavy stone.
Yet vain as the mason errs, may he make thus:
A mark of the day our kin visage is shown.

Oh, found in the throb of every antique wing,
The glow and hollow in the bone and air—
Inscribed is the known day coming to sing
Of when we'd falter upon the bleeding snare,
After seeing these crests chide with fiery word,
And the firmaments rolling thorns play in ruling;
For that which dwelled, dwells still, and heard,
Of the fire and flux and time most grueling.

The source idles as strange in its weeping,
Yet the mouth, in ending, holds it in inborn wit,
And winds man entire, subtle and creeping,
To where his life, illumined, and faded, shall sit.
By this, be us ash, or the lit dew of the spheres,
The bird shall ever story from its great limb:
The two utter into one over the many years,
And from this, the Logos composes its hymn.
Hello! Those other poems I'm working on are taking up a good bit of my time and energy— so, I hope you all enjoy this one while those are being toiled away on. Thanks to everyone who has followed me on my other social platforms. Also, I can't respond to whoever follows or messages me on Tumblr at the moment. Something about their site isn't working properly.
1.4k · Mar 2019
To The Worms
To the binding serpents of the dead:
Wither me to my material base,
As nature bids that you be fed;
Claiming my languid spirit and place.
Here, this ragged pile of bone
Which you have clasped so tight,
Will not cower or weakly moan
At your writhing embraces tonight.
For I return to this earthy keep,
And I know you'll boat me fair
To where man and deity sleep—
Within God, perfuming and bare.
Within this womb—this swollen mound,
Conquer me once more, worm!
And ring your bell for another bound—
It is only my life which you affirm!
I am traveling at the moment and will be back in my hometown sometime this weekend. I have something at home ready for everyone when I get back:)
1.3k · Jun 2019
He Who Suffuses Fire
Out of sunlit wisps and aspects light,
Out of sated eagles and mountain breeze,
Did they, in effulgence, unfold into sight
With delphic skins and raving unease—
O deity who splices that divine form,
And casts sepulchers from man's blood-
Even amid able words or whet irons, warm,
Does will hallow what arises from mud?-
—Fire! See those lingering binds instilled
In the sinewed and sinewless ones-
Enrich them! Perceive each as you build!-
Accord upon your many wandering sons:
A sum of creases, a new shade to be bore,
And youthful beat in the stain of your being.
There is your lamb! There is flesh in fore!-
Toiled and golden- fructified by your seeing!
—Fire! How stifling is your deferring!-
Savored in the sufferer's depth and doing,
And in the convalescent's long stirring!
O stars, this life- for flux or supine viewing?
On me the tempest falls. It does not make me tremble. O holy Mother Earth, O air and sun, behold me. I am wronged.
- Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound

This is it for now- I'm going back on hiatus for a while. I hope you all enjoy this piece. It might look better if you turn your phone if you're on mobile. Also wanted to say thank you for the sheer amount of support on "O Friends of Twilight" and my poetry in general. I won't be gone for too long.

I love you all,
1.2k · Jun 2019
The Owl of Minerva
O Owl! —Why leash our roads to this stone:
Where foretime faiths consort in change?
Where intent is recited undue and strange?
Where the slaves' golden frills are grown?
To know the dead in pale verses and rivers full-
To propel, wrought and winding with youth,
To wholly adopt the sumless womb of truth,
And to dwell in the foothills of revelation and lull!
Our enduring composition: what we fathom in going;
A defacement—an evolution in scene and air.
Blessed be these traveled roads we wear,
For there we unearth our eager fruits growing.
Though clouded, may we render time standing,
Even when struck in the mute, fleeing traces-
O winged wisdom—forth from lifted faces,
Antiquity emits its light, cold and demanding!
I have just finished this and one other poem that I started around the time of finishing "O Friends of Twilight!". The other will be released soon; I hope you all enjoy.
1.2k · Nov 2018
Bits and Pieces #6
I write about the world in an attempt to remove myself from it. Not in a way that would bid my nonexistence- but to be an observer to that existence or nonexistence. I write to observe my own absurdity.
I promise to have an ACTUAL poem out soon but I wanted to ask: would any of you be interested in me writing more short stories? I haven't published one since "Would It Be Honest?" and, while more difficult, are very pleasing to create. I know that it's ultimately up to me on what I publish and write, but I didn't want to just dump loads of text on you all out of the blue.
1.1k · Aug 2018
Addiction Liability: High
I found it near a river,
While a million gods fell from your throat,
And made home in your veins,
I am no augur for this,
I will not correct your flaws.

What's yours is mine, what's mine is yours.
What is yours and what is mine,
I have a nosebleed; I have no father,
My father is dead.

Self-destruction is a thing reserved for addicts and poets.

Annihilation is euphoria,
I don't blame the addict, and I don't blame you.
After all, you said I was pretty,
Find me a cross; this is it.

You said that I remind you of a slave.
I don't like this one.
1.1k · Oct 2018
A Finger
Point it into my skin and run it across granite counter-tops dense with layers of intricate thoughts.
Slice your tongue on appetite and drop the influence of your lover into the perfumed atmospheres of animus.
Press the supple horizon constructed of saltpeter with its softening fields and breaking waves.
A finger tells me this- a bruised finger dipped in moss, concealed in trees and rubbing eyes-
The city is a concrete cathedral adhered by iron nails, rods of fear and unfamiliar faces; a colossal fist hangs over the soundless clumps of worshipers, seeding them with deceptive ease.
I carry the finger in my mouth, and it trickles heavy sound into my stomach; I hold it in my eye, and it does much the same.
A "stream of consciousness" piece.
I've been reading a lot about the surrealists and I've come to find that I enjoy their form of creative expression.
I've become more comfortable with letting my subconscious take over and write.
1.1k · Nov 2018
Bits and Pieces #5
We are more afraid of utilizing our freedom than we are of losing it.
I was going through some old papers and found this.
1.1k · Jul 2018
Floating Nazareth
Slinging the heavy wooden cross over his shoulder, he stood weary and tired; it was fastened to his ankle by a lengthy metal chain. The lights of the pier stood like ancient statues, passing judgment on anemic sinners.  As he trudged forth, he saw a small boy and girl sitting side by side, fishing off the edge of the pier. He knew them as mother and father. A thick moonlight illuminated the backs of their heads; A mournful sensation came over him. Maybe it's the dope that causes him to think this way.

Coming to the end of the pier, he saw all the ocean liners in the expanse of the night.
Carrying hundreds, possibly thousands of people. Lights reflected off the water like some nearly tangible reality. Reminded him of a Bob Ross painting that looked unfinished. He lifted the cross over the railing and let it plummet the thirty or so feet. He sailed over seconds later.

When he woke, he was still in his little hovel. A salty odor came rolling off the Dead Sea. He wakes as an unknown entity. A man in exile.
Not sure about writing poems in this format.
It's a start.
1.1k · Jul 2018
Do We Forget?
The rain sounds like burning paper,
Dissolving years of organismic, wistful letterings,
A timid rat before dilapidated cognizance,
Urinating the smatterings of philosophy as fuel.
I am the killer; You are the German farm,
I see a thousand ships in a formless mist,
Carrying the spoils of vulnerable daydreams.
A mistake is a tender breast for the jaded,
The mind is a slave to observation,
The rain is a slave to nature,
Paper is like oil, and I am like paper.
1.1k · Oct 2018
Bits and Pieces #1
You like wine, don't you?
I don't know-
I haven't made up that part of you yet.
I have hundreds of fragments and random scribblings lying around so I think I'll start throwing those on here.
1.0k · Sep 2018
Dance Of The Cannibals
Saturn rises through a glass house—
Faces assemble and dance with hands of iron.
Their lips do the radical task of thinking;
A whole mouth speaks and hears itself alone.

Some of them smoke their holy *****.
Some of them spin; others sway in a trance of amorality
And bewilderment induced by substance.
All the disquieting pleasure of company;
I flattened out on the floor like an offering.

Saturn doesn't crave me,
I have no party spirit to be possessed and learned.
Saturn doesn't desire me—
Why does he rain wine into my hands?
Why does Saturn **** in my hands?

My palms are instigators; my fingers are enablers.
My liver is poisoned—
I'm drunk, and I don't recognize these faces.
When scaling the mountain of life, the peak is not always the most important.
The most significant detail concerning life may be found halfway to the top.
It may be found in some cavern on the way up; secreted away in some crevice.
For some, it may be the peak which pleases or fulfills them the most, paying little regard to the journey and its details.
For others, the journey and the details are the most critical and fulfilling.
This is because we each think of fulfillment and ultimate joy in varied ways.
Some are more on the subtle intricacies, the modus operandi- if you will, of life and the way to higher thought and joy.
Some are more concerned with the peak, the end, the final utopia, and joy.
Concerned with the result above all things, whatever that result may be.
I find that I'm more comfortable with with simply writing out my thoughts and sharing them.
Maybe I will do more in this format as it interests me greatly to see what I can think of.
977 · May 2019
Look there, Lost and Bountiful Sea!-
For these bodies ache with calls,
And these currents decide who to be.

Sifting and secret amid the waving sands,
It constructs my winds with a cruel eye-
Oh, my voice- so thin in its hands!

I, a glance lost in the wideness of death
And blessed by this ray filled cloud,
Was born upon a long, passing breath-

And, dancing wildly amid these trees,
Spoke an old truth upon a fleeting past:
We live so statues may be at ease.
I'm not fully back to the site but I felt like posting this. I wanted to do more with it and I might at a later date but this is it for now.
Also, I have a Tumblr up and going (it's under the same name that I have on here). Feel free to check that out if you want.
966 · May 2019
Silenus Abstains
O law of being and vague dreams,
You hide among yellowed, weary eyes.
But here, your hymnals and beams
Are shown malevolent in their guise.

Once you were a dark and moving gale,
Ushering lost wisps into our sight.
The end you augured but did not unveil,
Was not an end- but only a fellow night.

How you swore love and mighty aims,
Empire and failure and turns of all kinds-
All akin and rent merely in names!
Oh, how life may serve as its own binds!

Your grand turning of skin compels us so-
Beads of purity conquered by yearning.
This endless motion, a given for woe;
Our years are swept away in discerning.
"For he lives with the least worry who knows not his misfortune; but for humans, the best for them is not to be born at all, not to partake of nature's excellence; not to be is best, for both sexes. This should be our choice, if choice we have; and the next to this is, when we are born, to die as soon as we can." -The Wisdom Of Silenus
I don't particularly agree with this statement anymore but it did inspire this.
937 · Nov 2019
At the soft orchid's early breath,
I trailed the yawn of this world entire
To the stone seat of soundless death,
And swelled on wisdom and formless fire.
One of the shortest I'll ever post. I might come back to it at a later date. Due to an unexpected health issue, my writing time has been cut effectively in half. I'm still aiming at two poems a month (this month has been productive as I now have two finished) but don't be surprised if I'm inactive for a little while. Thank you, everyone, for your support.
919 · Aug 2018
The Autodidact
I've tried to teach myself life, but it has no textbook,
It only has the words of dead men who never heeded themselves.
All things wrote on life only add up to a vague definition, like trying to describe color to the blind.

Tonight, drink after drink, I tore down my maps, and I burned all I wrote.
I tossed out those history books, and I collapsed on the bathroom floor.
Rising, gazing at the reflection in the mirror through sweat-matted hair;
Living had come to deliver its answer.

At that moment, I decided to live;
I'd thrive on the ignorance of men and myself.
I'd learn to unlearn, to accept lies as truth, to be human and gullible.
To exist without existing, pointless, meaningless, narcissistic and cruel.
To be virtuous but be aware of my virtue so that it would be no virtue at all.
To be kind, yet aware of my affection, to be unhappy, yet aware of my sorrow. I chose to learn to contradict myself as living is a contradiction.

I look out over the hectic nighttime streets, full of living entities in various states of self-destruction and triumph.
Totally unaware of myself, I lend my eyes and ears to the city, ready to learn.
890 · Jul 2018
Bleeding Across The Sphere
It reminds me that a new day has come,
It reminds me of the atrophied one,
It reminds me of the unfamiliar times,
It reminds me of a deep coma.

When the light leaves my mouth,
And you know my name is Eternity,
I shall be waiting for the day.
And I will be new and clean,
Like an innocent child, sliding on the afterbirth of creation.

Yes, burn my irises!
Yes, carbonize this frail and weak body!
Yes, make me **** and flesh!
Yes, fill me with a new and profound purpose!
Yes, I am your *****!
Yes! Yes! Yes!
788 · Dec 2019
Written in Man and Leaf
The sovereign spirit unfolds the tree and bone
Into young vapors and circles moving swiftly by,
And erects the artisan who erects the stone:
Echoing on that ever transient and ephemeral cry
Which drapes on the cold night and tall bough,
A moon, white with laughing and weeping shores,
And, with a fertile cup speaking of then and now,
Binds in sleep every sister moon as it gently pours.
—And the sea throbs silent into that far stream;
The stars call wisdom from the dark that weaves,
And the poet composes it, golden upon his ream,
To rise about the mountainside—written in leaves.
And the sun's many pikes fall on the waking snow,
To warm the blood into the architectures heart:
The blood which bids every sky and skin to know
Of this fragile eternity who dreams itself apart.
Oh, and the hemlock seeks the sage and the just,
And the black day's pyre laps patiently at kings,
Who, as the sphinx riddles of evening star and dust,
Unfurls as a thicket of time in the void of its wings.
You may want to turn your phone to read this on mobile. This will be my last post of this year; the amount of support for my poetry and me on the last post and this year in general has helped me in innumerable ways. It has taken my life which seemed bound for failure and helped me make the decision I have made quite recently: I have chosen to live. Earlier this year, I contemplated taking my own life. I won't go into detail about it, but just know that I have an inexpressible gratitude to each and every one of you. I am here, I shall remain here in the next year, and hopefully the one after. Thank you all!

—With overwhelming love,
786 · Jan 2019
Bits and Pieces #9
1.  Minds are heightened or subdued through the same phenomenon: the destruction of truths and falsities.
2. Disappointment is reality deviating from your illusions.
3. It is always hardest to convince or console oneself. One who does neither will be forever lost.
4. Those who surrender themselves to a lifestyle of failure loathe those who do the same.
5. Denial of the improbable is the denial of the future and the acceptance of an absurd existence where all is random. Existence is a confusion structured of probability and constants.
6. Life relies on our ability to form compromises with our illusions.
Not sure what to call these... Maxims? Aphorisms? Observations?
I've been in a bit of a creative slump recently so it's kind of hard to write... or do anything for that matter.
699 · Jul 2018
Teratoma With Teeth
Wrapped in warm and dense tissue; I take your hair,
I sprout teeth to gnaw at your apatite,
Weeping little one, I am your owner,
Sickly little one, I am your teacher.

Which will stagnate first in this strange present?
Your surroundings, or you?
Musing about the possibilities,
Then you culminate in bliss.

Well, I kept your favorite chair,
Its got some captivating feeling to it,
Infantile and delicate; remote, yet familiar.

Like a forest fire.
680 · Jan 2019
L’appel Du Vide
Wreathed in the cold air of knowing
And the false promises of stars,
We swallow its ancient, blinding wines
As we cascade through the universe
To where our inebriated forms are sifted
Through the veil of faces called time.

Oh, on the peaks of infinite possibility,
God calls us to fulfill our obligation.
To this end, we disperse ourselves
Through his various forms of exit.
Scattered, fluttering, ever alone—
Glimmerous flakes of was and is,
Lead by strings into tomorrow.

One more drunk face in the mirror,
One more clouded face in the womb-
How they flutter in its call!
How they flutter in its call!
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