proportion of com
mon
sense, as understanding,
wherein we are
so old, solidly
sold into static
chains b
or
n
into us, in
to us,
we can't get so
lutions
long term for current
dis
solutions.
this
dissssolving
of self and other
selves
we sold our
selves. see? we
want all the pretty
loves and perfect
lives pretty and perfect
lies we conspire
again
st
a cold fact uni
verse. see? we
all want our de
serving, our
right shit entitle, even
as we are
stripped daily, con
ceits
broken, thrown
down
as wind in the grass, pining
for the real
shit, a lover
's lips
on our
own, or
methods whereby we
travel from cradle to grave
without being completely fucking afraid
of the everything\everywhere oblivion.
no answers to questions,
merely guesses. and we are
merely guests here. getting
lucky, maybe
finding love
to fancy, as life
is the ultimate
annihilation.
different
differences
can be made, no
way to know though, other
than f***ing:
feeling,
that is,
the
space
in
side
solitude
and it grows,
an inflation
of what can
not
be measured, no matter
how much i ex
plore this
ex
panse.
still, i
have yet to quantify
it, yet
numbering days numbered,
all those days
between then
and now....a heart on
walkabout, at sea, con
fusing the light
with semblances
of meaning, where
there is none. and who
can swim forever
?
thank the gods, there is no
after
life, but
after this life
be
comes some
thing less
than a complete
mystery, i
might learn from
it.
No comments:
Post a Comment