"The form in which we live our lives"

The form in which we live our lives

Breeds in the midst of demon hives.

For dogs do bark in senseless fright

At shadows lurking in the night,

And souls shiver at that unseen;

Cathartic reasons not to dream.

Voices whisper ideas, faux truths,

That knowledge has no valid use.

And when we hear, we do obey

The voice that blocks the light of day.

Lamplight dances against cave walls

And childlike wonder slowly falls.

Pavlov shakes his head in sadness,

For we, indeed, are his madness.

And Plato weeps within his cage

For all his truths leave him in rage.

Is all that we can ever see

Vague words that tell us not to be?

"to live in anticipation of a phoenix orb of lig"
Melody W 

Why is the speckled lark oblivious to the fading warmth
of a dying sun that taints the world with feeble light
illuminating the motionless face of a stone mountain dwelling?
Does it cease the rhythmic flutter of wings all aglow
fashioned like countless generations before and those yet to come?

When shadows fall and gradually disappear
into obscure crevices of clearings in woods never tread upon
it would seem that darkness exposes
reflects the barren souls living, existing,
and yet almost incapable of being.

So much of everything is composed of nothing
mere empty space yearning to pull off the illusion of reality-
until a desire to delve deeper
to push through quanta of energy
and minuscule atoms screaming with silent fury
ignite meaning

in psychologists and philosophers
      eager to present another iota of wisdom obtained
in a shivering orphan living day to day
      with an unparalleled yearning for better tomorrows
in a lark not oblivious to the fading warmth of a dying sun
      but striving with all the forces inside impelling it
to live in anticipation of a phoenix orb of light
to exist amidst this terrible chaotic world
gradually growing resplendent
cyclical as a flame

"devoid of any will to live"
Melody W 

The idea is that
subtleties will always emerge

sullenly filtering through
altruistic gestures falling short

while crescendoing lulls by the wayside
drown in weathered milliseconds

And through it all, sentences become
strangled as an aged mouse

dangling cruelly from the jaws
of the being enveloping it,

then settling warily into a realm
devoid of any will to live

"*you cannot live without me, can you?*"
Melody W 

you are the biting bullet
piercing flesh through and through
destructive force, invoking vicodin

I am the terrible anxiety
squeezed into milliseconds
before the pain actually hits

you are the flashy headlines
the promise of change,
spotlight on tragedy and love;
tragic, lovely intersection of both

I am the humble footnotes
extending my feeble hand upward
like a moth drawn to its demise
and yet -

you cannot live without me, can you?

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