(no subject)
[Lights dim. Kneeled, stays a man, overcast.]
Now we’re to petals as hanged proceeds to fallen; a self-destruction descent an eye might propose to a doubting hand, twitched from loss of cognizance that ran dry the set stage.
[Enters now, Conscious sun.]
Leave your womb with leaves as a new day is dawned; a just attempt at prosed walking serves legs to no avail embedding footstep patterns.
Two sides of a limber born carcass merits the slanted looping in strides
While a misread breed of skittish actors take left and state, “I could not have stolen a better role to land my tainted hands on”.
[Step one: Remove staggered steps and you have a cure; enters hope.]
Wither not, with high-held heads; a pair of open arms awaits the toasted word, sung in hymns of silence to sounds of slumber.
Those are the tactless whispers that’ll never ceased be answered; speaking only in words knotted to an ears approval.
[Stands now, Man]
Albeit those ears will guide us, they will walk our way beside us, calling for a numbness to exceed the disposition that was horded for a time, too long.
[He looks for a lone spot amongst the congested stage]
Watching with barren eyes, as every faster-paced and more refined walk slowly takes my place in line.
And despite an under minded proposal, it wills un-resting dubiety for the mind to sink in state of languor.
Soon we are alone enough to speak.
[Fades out, Actors]
Malaise, keep true to my repose; foreshadow forever.
And pause this fucking uncertainty.
Because no matter how you wish to excel, you’ll always keep to past tense steps, crafting a lifetime into apparitions.
A skin made out of tongues cries out for the notebook of a fallen.
Every indent shifted for the passing of a lover, with every line carrying a newborn’s mother.
[Dissection enters: Stage left.]
Clots of ink will speak the rights of passage before the pen can spew its beauty; a gull engulfed by greed soon makes way for thoughts endured with poison.
He plucks his flight willfully to embed the author’s hand with fear of every touch of any other figure but himself.
[Leaves now, Resting Sun]
Born, is a deviant dreamer.
[Lays down, Man]
"Non compos mentis, non compos mentis---bereft of hope---sleep takes me."
Now we’re to petals as hanged proceeds to fallen; a self-destruction descent an eye might propose to a doubting hand, twitched from loss of cognizance that ran dry the set stage.
[Enters now, Conscious sun.]
Leave your womb with leaves as a new day is dawned; a just attempt at prosed walking serves legs to no avail embedding footstep patterns.
Two sides of a limber born carcass merits the slanted looping in strides
While a misread breed of skittish actors take left and state, “I could not have stolen a better role to land my tainted hands on”.
[Step one: Remove staggered steps and you have a cure; enters hope.]
Wither not, with high-held heads; a pair of open arms awaits the toasted word, sung in hymns of silence to sounds of slumber.
Those are the tactless whispers that’ll never ceased be answered; speaking only in words knotted to an ears approval.
[Stands now, Man]
Albeit those ears will guide us, they will walk our way beside us, calling for a numbness to exceed the disposition that was horded for a time, too long.
[He looks for a lone spot amongst the congested stage]
Watching with barren eyes, as every faster-paced and more refined walk slowly takes my place in line.
And despite an under minded proposal, it wills un-resting dubiety for the mind to sink in state of languor.
Soon we are alone enough to speak.
[Fades out, Actors]
Malaise, keep true to my repose; foreshadow forever.
And pause this fucking uncertainty.
Because no matter how you wish to excel, you’ll always keep to past tense steps, crafting a lifetime into apparitions.
A skin made out of tongues cries out for the notebook of a fallen.
Every indent shifted for the passing of a lover, with every line carrying a newborn’s mother.
[Dissection enters: Stage left.]
Clots of ink will speak the rights of passage before the pen can spew its beauty; a gull engulfed by greed soon makes way for thoughts endured with poison.
He plucks his flight willfully to embed the author’s hand with fear of every touch of any other figure but himself.
[Leaves now, Resting Sun]
Born, is a deviant dreamer.
[Lays down, Man]
"Non compos mentis, non compos mentis---bereft of hope---sleep takes me."