A Certain Bout of Creativity Brought On By the Consumption of Joseph Wallace... Whoever That Is...
Peek inside the willow-veil,
the chaotic, hollowed standard bends in the wind
bends & breaks.
The essence revealed, come here no longer
For fear of life.
Retreat to the hovel,
the place of cuniform trees and glass-eye marbles
where mothers call for their oppressive children
only to drive them off into the harsh desert
Once more.
I shouted stop
but the sphere revolved still,
answering to the gaze of the Grandmaster of all,
parched hands and delicate fingers picking a tune that no one would hear.
Not a one.
It all comes down to nothing, she once said,
languishing among the infinity scorched hills and gasping earth
plucking the blade, cutting the word, slicing all that was ever held dear
And beyond, the sun still shone bright.
White & hot.
Counting the stones in the circle of ages,
a violent flutter and she stands there, proud again,
Fritter and waste, she says.
It all comes tumbling down, she says, eyes betraying something I cannot see.
I am blind.
Swift through the river, the automaton lumbers,
ordained to drown, no choice in the matter.
Doing what is told for those undeserved,
for those with the janglings keys of a world owned,
denying god at every turn.
Speak not of it.
the chaotic, hollowed standard bends in the wind
bends & breaks.
The essence revealed, come here no longer
For fear of life.
Retreat to the hovel,
the place of cuniform trees and glass-eye marbles
where mothers call for their oppressive children
only to drive them off into the harsh desert
Once more.
I shouted stop
but the sphere revolved still,
answering to the gaze of the Grandmaster of all,
parched hands and delicate fingers picking a tune that no one would hear.
Not a one.
It all comes down to nothing, she once said,
languishing among the infinity scorched hills and gasping earth
plucking the blade, cutting the word, slicing all that was ever held dear
And beyond, the sun still shone bright.
White & hot.
Counting the stones in the circle of ages,
a violent flutter and she stands there, proud again,
Fritter and waste, she says.
It all comes tumbling down, she says, eyes betraying something I cannot see.
I am blind.
Swift through the river, the automaton lumbers,
ordained to drown, no choice in the matter.
Doing what is told for those undeserved,
for those with the janglings keys of a world owned,
denying god at every turn.
Speak not of it.