The Pattern

A wispy strand hangs in the air
It is the recurrence of one
Hung on the dimly lit walls
Of the blackest dungeon.
On the rough ground,
A pool of ink seeps from the mound
Of splintered bones and shards of glass.
Once a room filled with silken folds,
And seductive aromas,
Now an open grave, filled with skeletons.
Naught but one open window,
The bars providing a narrow escape
For the bird with fluttering heart
That beats rapidly with feathered wings.
There is no life in that place,
Yet it draws those who do not seek it.
It claims the weak
Shaking newfound resolve into nothingness.
The repetition, beyond the point of deja vu
I fear the approach of that beast,
I know its footsteps all too well,
And yet here I stand, waiting to be devoured.
Now it is over,
The iron clad gates clang shut,
Reverberating throughout the castle of my mind.
And the spider begins building its web again.

The Reverse Progression of Boundaries

It was written, devoid of human perception
That boundaries would be smashed,
Into glittering shards of light
Seen on a tiled floor, solidified in an image.
A thought, that the shade of light would not exist
Except for its counterpart of shadow.
Such is the universe when it is seen.
If there is the material, there is the immaterial.
Through logic, every possibility has a counterpart
And every dissection of the whole results in a component,
Until the core has been reached, and its opposite is found.
Here is where simplicity supposed to start,
Yet the complexity only increases,
And whether in reverse, or in forward progression,
Each dimension seems larger.
Nonetheless, the center would
Reasonably have a mathematical value of zero
If only for the sake of symmetry.
And yet the world cannot be compressed into one line of sight
One perspective may never encompass the entirety of the universe
And only one knows it in its completeness.
Perhaps then, to say that it is complete with regard to current definition
Would be severely lacking.
For the unfathomable vastness of the universe and all it contains
Is unable to fit in any sort of constraints,
Save that of our mind,
And that is only out of sheer necessity.
Take, for an instance, art.
Its definition is still subject to debate,
Especially as to what it encompasses.
Indeed, the universe itself, down to the last subatomic quark,
Is a masterpiece in and of itself.
And here are we, the conscious minds at the center of it all
Attempting to comprehend ourselves, to create order
Sectioning each experience and perception into a category,
Yet still conscience of the entire canvas.
If we did not have this knowledge,
This cognitive outlook at our surroundings,
Would we then be no more than
Ants scurrying about on the surface of the planet?
Perhaps these musings are no more than the face
Of another waste of time.
Regardless of the perspective from which it is seen,
The implications of time are those of movement, of progression
Perhaps my time would be better spent
Studying the institutions of society
So that I may endeavor to make a more lasting impression on people
Until the day I die.
As opposed to writing unimpressive words
On an unreasonably low traffic blog.
Perhaps I fool myself into thinking
There is some self-fulfillment to be had,
And like so many other things, it is an illusion.