He lived in a home that was drenched in secrecy
Every step left a whisper
every night life would linger
& his friends were mostly dead, or hermits, or cats, or bugs
He was fine with interpolating his own luminance
He felt free amongst his chosen monochromatic romance with self
Devoid of voids, of noise, of threats
Employed by dark, through cobbed webs crept
A multitude of purgatorial projections strangled him.
Yet he was not uneasy, and did not concern himself
He’d tried, and fried and burned himself
He’d learned, and purged, and earned himself
This desolation…
Time rolled through his city, he’d simply tend the garden.
Overgrown with his patient isolation he formulated his statement
He’d made a vow to keep his mouth stitched
Unless his words could make a difference
For he’d tried, and they didn’t
And he’d tried, and they didn’t
It seemed risky, and he knew all too well how failure felt
He reflected, he refracted, accepted and diffracted all his passion
Dipped his quill in the ink and let it happen
For years he wrote and felt no satisfaction
Months of formulation at a time sent soaring into fires.
And clearly he grew weary.
He was clutching at an idle centrifuge
He refused to reconsider….
One day a shrill noise penetrated his existential state of healing.
It was indecently beautiful and an overwhelming feeling.
For reasons unbeknownst, he wept like a child
For the first time in years he looked at himself
Not introspectively but physically.
He recognized his misery, separated emotionally he felt a sense of sympathy for his own blistering. This was his own detriment, this was his own obscuring. He’d been procuring resentment and sacrificed his only chance to be awoken.
As is the case all too frequently , he realized his fate all too late. He approached the edge of his world and laughed at the apparent lack of resolution from his chosen lens.
There was no chance to make amendments,
There; was no time left to make friendships…
He was at the focal point pointing down at himself.
Tears of sorrow became supple, then became thin and ironic until finally…
A tiny glimpse of hope reignited his laughter.
He had documented most of his journey.
Although intentionally cryptic, this was the nature of the mystic
Naturally he had missed it but somebody else might enlist his list and fix the districts
And figured he’d be happy home.
So he descended now into the ether, and either way…
He knew he’d turn the fulcrum. So his reluctance was released
He was finally at peace
He gauged his tension and left one final inky contribution
All Growth Requires Spiritual Dissonance
Indefinite Balance Without Seamless Enlightenment and Luminance
is Stagnation.
subtlekeystrokes 