(no subject)
Nerves wrapped on words, shaking, naked feelings like we cloth our mouths
the perfect offering discarded, is it supposed to be so? Is that not the point?
arrow of affliction stinging your neck and doubt creeping from the shadows
its tentacles slowly reaching out trying to wrap around your legs.
crawling up your torso sinking its dark suckers and gripping your heart
it twists its hold and slowly cools it.. slowing the beat, collapsing
the icy black ink blinding you, turning you to ice
until the layer of ice is shattered struggling to move the fire burns into your thalamus,
but this fire moves you, you cant stop moving it burns your rusty walk to a run, protruding your forces
Understanding is impossible for water vaporizes and flesh burns
As you hit the moon like some kind of Egyptian arrow pointed at the sky, your face splattered against the crust
The icy touch of realizations of what you are and why you are put in these frames of mind
envelope your soul until you are the moon. as your ego slides away from earth slipping out of view and residing on the half you have lived for most of your life, and because of longitudinal liberation you feel almost raped by yourself. Betrayed but tinged with a slight joy, your heart soaked in melancholy. Dripping like the world does. As the Ibis headed man or dog headed baboon shakes you, tells you to wake up, but then again you have always been his friend. The true master he is the architect. He is the dreamer.
The fool with his heart gilded with reflection has only the moon as a friend, only death as a promise.
the perfect offering discarded, is it supposed to be so? Is that not the point?
arrow of affliction stinging your neck and doubt creeping from the shadows
its tentacles slowly reaching out trying to wrap around your legs.
crawling up your torso sinking its dark suckers and gripping your heart
it twists its hold and slowly cools it.. slowing the beat, collapsing
the icy black ink blinding you, turning you to ice
until the layer of ice is shattered struggling to move the fire burns into your thalamus,
but this fire moves you, you cant stop moving it burns your rusty walk to a run, protruding your forces
Understanding is impossible for water vaporizes and flesh burns
As you hit the moon like some kind of Egyptian arrow pointed at the sky, your face splattered against the crust
The icy touch of realizations of what you are and why you are put in these frames of mind
envelope your soul until you are the moon. as your ego slides away from earth slipping out of view and residing on the half you have lived for most of your life, and because of longitudinal liberation you feel almost raped by yourself. Betrayed but tinged with a slight joy, your heart soaked in melancholy. Dripping like the world does. As the Ibis headed man or dog headed baboon shakes you, tells you to wake up, but then again you have always been his friend. The true master he is the architect. He is the dreamer.
The fool with his heart gilded with reflection has only the moon as a friend, only death as a promise.