Empty Souls

The mind of mankind.
Within so many, the vast majority of it lies dormant,
Hidden away deep within the writhing folds of flesh,
So that thought is only given to shallow desires and emotions,
Caught up in relationships without depth,
Built on fading pleasantries
That crumble as dirty plaster.
Where offenses burrow like insects in the rotten core,
And bring about collapse.
Yet even in minds
In which the first layer of skin has been torn away
And exploration has been made in far greater depths,
There still exists a container which cannot be filled
And to pursue a quest to fill it with earthly treasures
Would be in vain.
Still, even those with an answer chase after ghoulish desires
And are tricked into wasting time,
Playing meaningless games that only lead to addiction.
Fetid heaps of excuses lay down a stench in the paths of life,
While works of meaning lie cast aside
For days that will never come.
On the horizon, the flames of tribulation lick the sky
With the orange forked tongues of serpents,
The earth shakes with pain of labor,
And thunder crashes in the distance.
Few foresee it, as each one labors to their own benefit
Consumed with self-preservation
Gathering unto themselves anything they can lay their hands on
All the while seeking for something that would fill.
Composed on the outside, deceivingly civilized,
Yet inside, they are wide-eyed pitifully needy creatures,
Grasping desperately with clawed hands,
To find that which cannot be seen.
Caught in a life of repetition,
Falling to traps that are known all too well
Lacking the strength and fortification in the soul
To control emotion, mind, and will.
The people feel that their original source has been cut off,
Leaving behind empty souls that cannot be filled
Because there is naught that fulfills
Until a specific purpose is given
And the heart has been trained to be faithful,
Overflowed with love, and purged from every iniquity.

Rejuvenation of Meanderings in Simplicity

Leaves blowing across the pavement,
Scurrying and scampering like so many little mice with their nails scratching on the concrete surface,
And no one but I will notice or even spare a thought.
I have entered a state that comes about every so often.
One could call it poetic,
yet it is no more than a mind detached
from so many other earthly things
and set in the gentle meanderings of simplicity.
It is like the simple joy that is felt within the childish heart
in creating a towering city of blocks, or a drawing of beings that defy the laws of physics.
I will not hesitate to say that those memories bring back some of that which is missed.
For in the world's current state are found monstrous tides of complexity
where relief and the darker side of enjoyment are found in flailing arms
set the throbbing beat of a base and flashing light shows
while intoxicating substances flow through systems,
taking away the memory of the strain of life,
and leaving their painful mark.
I seek none of it,
for my only solace is in the simple things while the state may last.
And now the muse has left again
until that time again may pass.

To See from the Eyes of Another

A reminder of the book that must be written.
Of a man with that power. To see through the eyes of another.
But how?

Alliteration

Not now do the naked negations normalize
nor will the necromantic nurses nominate a narcohypnia.
No noise shall nauseate by way of nares, not in that nutricial normality nor in any name pertaining to nasology.
A fine number on notarikon, yet it limits writing to the point that the fingers of my mind claw at the plastic enclosure, squealing as the plastic rubs the imperfections of my skin, and a face pushed outward stretching against the clammy translucent surface.

Have I not learned anything?

Sieve

A series of ambiguous images
Flowing through the subconscious
The ancient symbol of the hourglass
Flashes across the vision
The sands of time rushing through the glass
Like so many fish struggling as one
Against the current's drag.
A symbol of that which is called time,
No more than a conscious perception of an institution
And yet it flows by like a clear mountain spring.
Rather, we are swept along with it
As is everything else that we perceive to exist therein.
It must have a beginning and an end
Lest it be called an eternity
For which, in order to comprehend it,
we should require a time without end,
perhaps better defined as the absence of time as a concept
That which is forever.
Yet with our perception of human living,
Our time is spaced by means of birth and death
And when our life has progressed to such an extent
that we should realize how much we have accomplished
In the events that have thus far occurred in life,
It suddenly seems such a short time
And that institution of time suddenly becomes a looming shadow
On our horizon.
That which is integrated into culture with the metallic hand of clock
The dark shadow of the sundial and the glare of the hour glass
And is ever present in the conscious part of the mind
Is now harsh reality.
We are running out of time,
For an event draws ever closer
That marks the end of our time
We must be sifted now through the Sieve,
Till naught remains but the finest of
That which has been given us.

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.