There are ways to express the rainbows which hover in the cluttered mind. Ways in which the butterflies dance and through the fog of spindly legs and fluttering wings you see light filtering from the heavens. Never holding to the silhouette for more than a moment, you seem so black and white, yet the problem is.... you are both black and white. You switch and turn and change faster than the raging waters of a swollen spring river, unable to know what you want, it is easy to deny what you have promised.
Each twist cuts away, digging deeper into the earthen heart, a rut in which what seeds may be planted? Without nourishment what could grow? No waters spring from this well, but instead the drying soil turns to stone with time and the pressure of the Ages weighing down upon its sleepless form.
Heedless you waiver to and fro, hunting for an answer yet not knowing what you seek. I ask you, why do you not spend some thought? Are the moments of silence only there to be your bane? Or perhaps, mine. Pools of blood hidden in caves feed the scummy swamp fish whose eyes have long since been removed by Fate. Mayhap this seems irrelevant yet somehow echoes within your soul, fluttering and hinting; hinting at truths your cluttered mind cannot grasp. Not now, not in this state.
Failing to see the pattern, wandering across the many paths which sprawl through the fallen wood, why not stand in one place for the sun to warm you? See your reflection in this pond and question the fish within; perhaps they have the answer, don't they? Do they not know better than I? Better than you? Better than Fate? One might think so given your proclivities. I have yet to see the other side of your many arms, do they weigh you down, sir octopus? Cast out of water, you appear to hurt, but the glint in your eye says you would rather cause anguish than to experience your own happiness.
Maybe that is all you know? Fear is a nasty treat.
Rendering the golden shafts of feeling cannot take away the stench from the flesh which rots on the bones, maggots were ever useful, yet the horror of them begets a rage which can never be dimmed. The fury in your blood serves you, does it not? Yet fury is hot and the boiling will dry you to a husk as your soul evaporates and your heart hardens into twisted foil. Don't be afraid.
Do not fear love, my love, my lovely. Just fear the cost of your own fear. Irony is worth the high price.
Flies in the cat's belly do not assist the mouse. Nor does that ache in your bowels assist the taco hidden within.
See the redirection and spy upon it, what fears are not expressed through such forms as this? You will never know unless you look deeper, forcing your way into its depths. The chest will open, but 'tis not gold hidden within...
Find out yourself - it can only be interesting... yet...
Silence.
Each twist cuts away, digging deeper into the earthen heart, a rut in which what seeds may be planted? Without nourishment what could grow? No waters spring from this well, but instead the drying soil turns to stone with time and the pressure of the Ages weighing down upon its sleepless form.
Heedless you waiver to and fro, hunting for an answer yet not knowing what you seek. I ask you, why do you not spend some thought? Are the moments of silence only there to be your bane? Or perhaps, mine. Pools of blood hidden in caves feed the scummy swamp fish whose eyes have long since been removed by Fate. Mayhap this seems irrelevant yet somehow echoes within your soul, fluttering and hinting; hinting at truths your cluttered mind cannot grasp. Not now, not in this state.
Failing to see the pattern, wandering across the many paths which sprawl through the fallen wood, why not stand in one place for the sun to warm you? See your reflection in this pond and question the fish within; perhaps they have the answer, don't they? Do they not know better than I? Better than you? Better than Fate? One might think so given your proclivities. I have yet to see the other side of your many arms, do they weigh you down, sir octopus? Cast out of water, you appear to hurt, but the glint in your eye says you would rather cause anguish than to experience your own happiness.
Maybe that is all you know? Fear is a nasty treat.
Rendering the golden shafts of feeling cannot take away the stench from the flesh which rots on the bones, maggots were ever useful, yet the horror of them begets a rage which can never be dimmed. The fury in your blood serves you, does it not? Yet fury is hot and the boiling will dry you to a husk as your soul evaporates and your heart hardens into twisted foil. Don't be afraid.
Do not fear love, my love, my lovely. Just fear the cost of your own fear. Irony is worth the high price.
Flies in the cat's belly do not assist the mouse. Nor does that ache in your bowels assist the taco hidden within.
See the redirection and spy upon it, what fears are not expressed through such forms as this? You will never know unless you look deeper, forcing your way into its depths. The chest will open, but 'tis not gold hidden within...
Find out yourself - it can only be interesting... yet...
Silence.
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