top of page

Nothing Really

the parable of a vicious calling to create a key to note a scripture to find within all thoughts


drifting away from me all questions am questioning all against the grain for the feast begins


when, I couldn't dare say, remembered to breathe a breath of life for the morning far passed


quicklier and more quickly than the sun takes time to making shadows where there once was


light, it could be a midnight away, it could be a lifetime movie of mistakes made carelessly, I


thinketh thoughts that float along to be caught by someone and if that eye is me, moreso


there standing at the end of the hallway again to find shadows creating light where once


was darkness, and in the darkness there is what it is to find all things that could be and once


again, finding no truth behind the mask in glory on the other side of a reflection looking thin


peering down the floor granite and each torch light as each light step taken too heavily for


mindlessly the mind could find a million ways to escape detection, of all the black flames lit


to fly for all the black blood spilt tripping over the dead body til the cloak shakes oft the dust


of the mind grasping the skull in opposite paradigms searching for the realm of eyes closed


to be opening against the intellect all thoughts inverse resurrecting Death from fallen petals


torn from each the gardens art sharp nails leave marks along the trail stepping forward and


back unto the dance of masques enter thou self in living light revolted by promises, futures


written in words unknown to me, unspeakable these tongues serpentine, unthought of ways


to sing visions arisen and shimmering, it twas just there these baskets three, twas just a night


for revelry, to celebrate life within the castled walls ringing still from the bells wrung, a full


moon seeping in through the curtains closed at the windows glass seeing from the outside


in and walking in a garden forgetful of where it was to begin with that ever fleeting thing


perspective of the mind thinking thought is creation from the perception of a dove, unto


the desire of what it is to be, in front, formed fashion from out of the reflection as to what


it is to being dropped deeper than the tunneled shrieks from being split entirely as one in


each, there for a moment thinking there might be an exit from the pit of a peach held to


the light beneath the candelabras just neatly blown for smoke twirls at the fingertips, the


ribbon of the mask, what is it to be held close, in the mind gripped by a figure that for all


of time might have been, revolutions of nothingness circling the empty belief at the bottom


there must be something to hold on to before slipping into dust of the hallways collapsing


beams, barely enough time there was there time enough to begin understanding riddles of


the worshipper unveiling sacrificial alignments twas just a peach before the universe aflame


twas just a motioning of the hand beneath the orchastrae saying unto himself in the mirror

Recent Posts

See All

The Hourglass

Point A Needle To The Sky, Centered Minds Point A Gun To My Head, Circumstantial Ends Point A : The Diamond Sutra, Centrifical Forces Yet There Are One Thousand Arms Tied Up In The Book Of The Dead An

T E L L M E

never was there such a hand beneath the sin play to the part of the devil's grinning twas there such a death as to it

Comments


bottom of page