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The Madman, "Yes, three days, three centuries, three aeons. Strange they would always weigh and measure. It is always a sundial and a pair of scales."

Monday, October 26, 2015

(148)

Thoughts, like dry paper, lie parched
In the corner of a crumpled consciousness
That dreams restlessly
Of fur and velvet words.

Songs, swirling silently in a ceaseless emptiness,
Sparkle and glow like fireflies behind shut eyes-
Interspersed visions of dewy flowers on a foothill
In the middle of an otherwise sheer crimson scream.

Unshed tears stain hot cheeks of exposed memories,
Exaggerated realities trample illusions treated unfairly,
Dreams are old calendars stuck on a drunkard’s poor wall,
Nothing may be salvaged as time crumbles into a bottomless black sea.

And yet,
A confounded soul digs its flaming fingers
Into the walls of a flickering heart.
Shadows stretch and hold hands
In homage to the setting sun god

Words evoke no meaning,
Meaning fails to form words
But as the crumpled paper burns
A well-versed smoke rises and fills the sky.


Saturday, October 24, 2015

(147)


The fabric of fire is ripped into shreds of flame and heat
Eternity has found cover under time’s slow, meandering tick
Nothingness has expanded its allness with a bang
And now measures in meters, millennia and grams
That which was a constant here and now
Has split into a clear this and a clear that,
Leaving the knower fumbling
As he juggles knowing, knowledge and the known,
Creating that which he forgets
I see all this as I peer into the all-seeing eye
All it sees, I see
All I see, is me