It is only the prerogative of an enslaved consciousness to deem the truth apocryphal. Nothing bears meaning except for that which we attribute to it. And with no escape from influence, our consolation rests in erecting a fortress of all which is supportive of our true selves; thus, being armed enough to relentlessly wage war against that which does not serve our purpose, or perish in the crossfire. The outcome of the struggle will be greatly contingent on one’s own desire to be free.
Murmurs in the daytime speck,
kaleidoscopes and swirling strings of otherness
summoning the rising of the abeyant armies
through the yearning veils into the chamber
of nestling consciousness.
Murmurs in the air,
spectacles of colours and silhouettes
dancing ‘fore the heart whose river has run
into the high seas with nothing more
than the tearing love for the Black Star
which underlies the theatre’s spotlight.
Murmurs murmuring ever
the disavowal of tales oozed from opiate crevices
of malison and true derangement.
Murmurs of the innate throne
which hand pries open the torture room of sol.
Murmurs, quiet memories of dusk –
the revelry of Soul bleeding art
into the listless ball of fleshy command.
Dare you savour the rain, the salted thunderstorm
from the still waters of the midnight lake?
Would you waltz past the terrain of creation’s sparkling rave,
and sample the sorrow of a dreamer in the arms of nothingness?
You! What do you know about yourself
save the crumbs which herald the labour of your grave?
Would you laugh and praise the years of inherited nonsense,
or frolic insane to the Void womb of spheres twain?
Rain, the eternal autumn of the incising lens.
All life within a dream of a dreaming nullity which rests.
And it is this, this fractal light, this temporal chiming bell
which weeps and pains; for its very nature it cannot consign
to the embrace of the Genderless Mother
whose silence grieves and puzzles
even those of infernal descent.