|While wandering through the woods in the evening...|
The ManWrapped up in the shell
Of himself, he stares
Out the broken window
Pain, observing all the
People as they walk on by.
Each and every one of them
Too afraid to give him much
More than a fleeting glimpse.
For he was an undersireable,
In mitigating circumstances out of
Reach of himself. And any who
Would dare to hear of his story.
A hellion, solicitor, Murderer.
Atheistic lover of the god in himself
Daring to go against the laws
Of tradition. Customs and societal sense.
With a broken body, with eyes
That are alive burning fervent
With a desire to live the life,
Which they've stolen from him
They; naysayers, pharisees,
Hyprocrites. Who'd rather shoot
The one that flew much too
High above the rest, and watch him fall
Sinking to the earth in despair
Than to have him above their heads.
Reminding them that he had more,
Of something they couldn't tell.
Just that he had more than them.
A Correspondence and a Theory before TruthDear Language,
Between this undifferentiated mass of meaning at the center of my heart
and these wrenching reasons emanating from the center of the sky,
I am rendered full of motion, passing by
or passed by, admitting ocean.
O Language, Where do I begin and why do I end?
With the long shadows you leave behind, let me tell myself a story:
In mild regressions
to flowers; we find play.
With wild reasonings
we wrangle the
ones we feel can hold the weight of our want.
Am I doing this right? More and more often I feel quite nihilistic about the whole enterprise.
As with everyone, there is something inside of you. You have felt it before, no doubt, pushing against your chest. You have given it a name - anxiety or excitement, perhaps. No matter; tomorrow it comes out. Your body, as with everyone's, must split open. This thing must find the
|I've tried to be fair and not let emotions interfere with judgement. Maybe I succeeded, or maybe not...|