A lavish afternoon: the sonata of echoes.
Falling through a dense blue, without grafity,
To vision landscapes that can't pertain to us.
All disguised in the shallow aroma sifting through our nostrils.
But listen! The distance harbors a clank.
Look too Quik, peering, craning at waht is not there.
Tasing the shade, washed in the darkness of a faint glow.
Sinclair kept the story hidden, recessed in Keddavran's cave.
Roll past a dissipated morning, the rocking of clashes.
Flying through uncontained space, pushed outward.
A subtle plink as the "far off" disappears.
Only the shade is replaced by smug images,
"In the beginning the world was created.
This has made a lot of people very angry
And been widely regarded as a bad move."
The last concrete scruple has gone quaint.
As the burning pyre softly caresses fingertips
I shed off teh sky and leave only what lay behind.
Yes I, a child of the Earth, left all utterly naked.
Such that will be when all comes to ruin.
An entire universe only title miniscule,
Left to float, completely directionless.
Le monde entier n'est pas dans votre cerveau
(The whole world is not in our brains)
Speak now the shoes of men "you have no for us".
We reamain ocked into a silent abyss,
escaping into an endless cage.
Creative outpost