The first power of the Sphinx
is Knowledge.

Science, philosophy, and religion
are the Holy Trinity;
        once a singular discipline,
        broken today into Three
                over differences in
                epistemology:

the First is a narrow window
into empirical space;

        the Following a flexible framework
        in conceptual space;

                the Final, all-encompassing
                on the stage of the soul;

                        neither invalidating
                        nor undermining each other,
                        but Checking and Balancing.

Facts are interpretations;
theories are stories;
storytelling, myth;
myth, the key to Knowledge.

To Know is to conceive.
To conceive is to objectify,
but far from objective:

We understand
what we invent.

                        "All things are Known.
                        What shall we do
                        with what we Know?" ¬

When curiosity is not slain,
but permitted in the vacuum
of the eternal Question,

Then are the journey
and the journeyer
initiated.

.
Notes wash over
The no angled ear
Listener, journeyer
See trails leading
To a cloud of sun,
Break in the skies,
Soon to know again
What was creeping
In the eyes of restless
Thought, unrequited
Sense, the whirling
Ride in the globes
Of vertigo and touch.

Dismembered by mood,
The musician conjures
Lost jewels in thought,
Sparks to the mind,
Sorcery in the bland,
Wayout, man, you dig,
Tap the deep rythmns
Drowning under toes,
Shutters we have lined
Go ourselves together
In the blinds.  Turn on,

Off those penny eyes,
The horn careening
In its heights of low
Down blues and sheen,
Be bop and stirring
In a rush, unfinished
The player knows
Your got number,
Is offbeat, syncopated
With the pearly drums
Of the sheet, read heart.

Jazzman is charmer
To sleepy serpent
Kept, shot in only bars
That leech into night,
The looking glasses
Pouring over misery
Ride sweet nowhere
In the tempos of fix,
Youngling daddy-o,
Plenty is the brass horn
Of Jazz in the clears,
Cool fingers singing
What the mind hears.

.
Notes wash over
The no angled ear
Listener, journeyer
See trails leading
To a cloud of sun,
Break in the skies,
Soon to know again
What was creeping
In the eyes of restless
Thought, unrequited
Sense, the whirling
Ride in the globes
Of vertigo and touch.

Dismembered by mood,
The musician conjures
Lost jewels in thought,
Sparks to the mind,
Sorcery in the bland,
Wayout, man, you dig,
Tap the deep rythmns
Drowning under toes,
Shutters we have lined
Go ourselves together
In the blinds.  Turn on,

Off those penny eyes,
The horn careening
In its heights of low
Down blues and sheen,
Be bop and stirring
In a rush, unfinished
The player knows
Your got number,
Is offbeat, syncopated
With the pearly drums
Of the sheet, read heart.

Jazzman is charmer
To sleepy serpent
Kept, shot in only bars
That leech into night,
The looking glasses
Pouring over misery
Ride sweet nowhere
In the tempos of fix,
Youngling daddy-o,
Plenty is the brass horn
Of Jazz in the clears,
Cool fingers singing
What the mind hears.

my brain started to rot,
with the thoughts that i dare not word,
the etchings and carvings of my trauma that i wish to never return,
and as life grips my throat,
the shaky breaths fail to escape my chapped lips,
drowning under the oceans anchored and below my sunken eyes,
with this weariness, i try to strive to see a world that loves me just the same,

and as my heart beats, falters, and persists,
despite all odds, determination fills my veins,
with aged scars, blackened burns, scarred scratches,
representing times i wish to forget,
the reminders are scorched into memories i like to pretend that never existed,
alongside the fact that my family did not foster a holy bond,

and, if any angels are near me,
them, as my witnesses,
can confide in that they only noticed spilled blood my own father admitted he never cared to see, the permanent cuts bound to my thick skin,
as i gazed into each slice,
wholeheartedly believing my blade would cut me from the ropes they ensnared upon my everloving entity

with the fury of the sun,
at the top of his tar-stained lungs,
he accused me of his premature death,
due to the stress of my illnesses he neglected to heal,
both still living with no regrets of the abuses he inflicted into my kin,
and the apple did not fall far from the tree,
similar sinisterness struck into my being
by the sinners i am expected to call my gracious home,

i am no angel,
and if god is cruel,
then you are the devil,

i am no savior,
no fallen child,
no messiah,
no hero from the stories that are my sanctuary,
just a wanderer, a journeyer, an existence that will cease,

and no matter who i am seen as,
and no matter how long i live,
and no matter my death date,
i will tell myself what you never will:
i am made of love,
i am made of light,
i am made of hope,
and i am a star that will never stop shining, even after my supernova
and as i become stardust, or rather dark matter,
the blurring of a century, if i am lucky enough, will fade into space,
and hopefully, if i am fortunate, another sweet, sincere, sorrowful soul will turn their eyes to the midnight sky,
and smile in the comfort that there is genuine happiness and beauty in this godforsaken world, even if it is lightyears away,
a keepsake of my soul, yearning my deepest desire, to be what i only hoped for anyone who so wishes,
though, especially endeared by those i love,
for i cannot gift it to myself, knowing the circumstances of life does not discriminate,
i want to love you forever,
but i cannot; our gravesites are as eventual as our smiles,
and, even, if for a moment,
couldn't it last forever...?

.
Notes wash over
The no angled ear
Listener, journeyer
See trails leading
To a cloud of sun,
Break in the skies,
Soon to know again
What was creeping
In the eyes of restless
Thought, unrequited
Sense, the whirling
Ride in the globes
Of vertigo and touch.

Dismembered by mood,
The musician conjures
Lost jewels in thought,
Sparks to the mind,
Sorcery in the bland,
Wayout, man, you dig,
Tap the deep rythmns
Drowning under toes,
Shutters we have lined
Go ourselves together
In the blinds.  Turn on,

Off those penny eyes,
The horn careening
In its heights of low
Down blues and sheen,
Be bop and stirring
In a rush, unfinished
The player knows
Your got number,
Is offbeat, syncopated
With the pearly drums
Of the sheet, read heart.

Jazzman is charmer
To sleepy serpent
Kept, shot in only bars
That leech into night,
The looking glasses
Pouring over misery
Ride sweet nowhere
In the tempos of fix,
Youngling daddy-o,
Plenty is the brass horn
Of Jazz in the clears,
Cool fingers singing
What the mind hears.
.

There are so many varying approaches to life
And you can find a journeyer of every sort here.

Some come through the back entrances down the dark alleys wearing trench coats lined with disappointment and desperation
Some waltz in through the glorious golden gates expecting champagne or at the very least someone in which the first name basis theory is not reciprocated
Some carry luggage heavier than themselves, hopeful of finding external muscles to lighten their load
And some travel light, carrying only expectations of an adventurous future and a strong dedication to their worn out soles (or should I say, souls?).

I stand before you a King
A court of gods at my feet
They bow to me in worship
In jest
In mocking of my demise
Self-inflicted
And total

I raise my eyes
A yawning expanse before me
I have become a wisp
In the night
Journeyer to places
Spoken of only in dead tongues
Which will not be named again
Until this tongue itself has died

There I’ve found the beasts
Which wallow in the blackest mire
Scraping
Gnawing
Strafing
Wasting
Frightening
Guarding

The treasures
I came here
First
To seek