blackamnesiaofheaven

preserve/disassociate i am fillingless white. colorless t o r p o r. bleached smiles and so so sweet - o dearest, when to return is to be encompassed; love is the sweetest of ornaments. (unadorned.)

for AND so it was; the white that dries the red, pale and carried; wrapped slow so that these wounds are forgotten, deep though they run. No revelation cast such length, for it flew upon the backs of beasts, trampled and tied burning to a stake driven holy in the ground. And there was no worry, nothing to mask this slept divine. we feathered these mountains to heavens just to render them shallow hills, "when rocks once dreamed of donning angel wings," there was only sleep to comfort them, seconds to a watch; leaving hope for the stuttering promise of disappointment. Yet there was no fear, nothing to mask this slept divine.

we should all just stop moving. o, to be free of this existential space our collective unconscious so adores and wanders through sleeplessly, gathering superficial meaning from the most inconsequential, mishapen stair and applying it to the simple curve of an indifferent smile.

Silt and solid gray, bleating Sheep towards the masses, bringing Words for truth, the exchange is evident In its lacking prose and poetry, unneeded And self-deserving hedonistic inclines Towards divinity. Come hither, my hands beckon The cold winds that breathe through These heady twisted wires, black wings that Dance across the heather dream; what ponderous nothings that so reawaken Such desolate ideals! the hands that shake and form illusion - Form beauty in the absence of light. I hate it. Yet it still. Hesitates. The earth to become suffused with a meaning, a glorified Phrase. To be spoken on the eve of every, and the very da

and the mirror is only reflecting grey space. or, perhaps, you- sans your magnificent displacement where we were all just leaves reappearing in your spitless palms just moths resigning our names to the wet light so we could finally sleep.

Kindle a meaningless light All my senses excited, the pen's tip Graces the palm – a dull knife! The halls had been empty but for These definite shapes, so delicate A sharp tongue of wind could Scatter and hold their ashes Oblivious. A mere scrape, and the feeling Softens, balloons to a Fasting intent – a pang in my left ear: (one day, I shall cut it out) an imagined thud rolling itself away, implacable! (and so it reads, nonsensically engraved in wooden statues, "love will come.") There is nothing but sound and dark, with such pale greys to distinguish silence from sentience. I will render myself grey And fold in, like a lea

In the absence of this dreaming, what defines my reality? These hands, these open palms suggest duality: there is only me, and me. these great instruments of self-destruction, cast here to poke and prod beneath the skin for sensation (and, perhaps, deathly reflection.)  They are such wicked movements! –and yet, severed, they serve a nonplussed purpose: to rot. And I still remain. These eyes could perceive the most infinitesimal insects of detail- but they refuse to, for the lids merely drip down like static raindrops, and move no more in their cowardice, absolute. Only in the face of truth, scarred and burning light, can t

to)define this delicate spa[ce](these vacancies that speak in darkly beautiful deviltongues, court the generic myth and leave it naked and cracking in the face of divinity, uttering only the occasional echo. oh.) )step outside.and long to capture the rain in an inverted cup.