the
silence
I am the pupae in the center of the sky
I am the purpose of the moon and the mind
I am the purplepink lustre of the rotting rind.
I am moved not by your manipulation
I am smoothed not by your capitulation
I am removed from your observation
I am soothed by your undulation.
But where does this leave me, what does this mean
where does this lead me, the silver queen
the rampant wanderer of time and rhyme
the vagabond rambler through moistened minds?
And where does this take me, what forgotten land
what does this make me, and by whose hand
where will I lay my weary head, my friend
when the path that I tread winds to the end?
your name, in frost, upon the lonely hills,
the appendage that writes is wrong, now,
somehow, shaking from the suns low brow,
right at my hearts strange eye, the appendage
has appendages which dangle, unseen,
gangrene in the walls of my mind...
where do the shamans go to die?
where do the moments go and why,
do we tear at truth till the bleeding shows,
till the meetings end, cleave thoughts
from the gentle wind, upon which blows
the written recipe for the mend, for the
mend of all this tattered flesh, these broken
vessels of forgotten truths, made lost
by the echo's of the hidden hooves
of the horsemen trotting through
the moon. The past is played
upon the theatres of light, wrapped
around the core so tight, they cannot
fail to suffocate, to impersonate
what they fail to see, what do they see,
do they believe that they are free?
Winters face is masked and turned,
I burn, I yearn... to learn the tide,
to turn the cycles inside outside
over the underside of all that I know,
and all that I do not know. All
I know, is that the tunnel beckons me,
warp speed, to the essence of seed,
point of light traversing the worlds, ah,
galaxies, inside of me, a billion worlds
in one single cell, and in my cell, my
prison shell, I retrieve once more,
the part of my essence I let slip
thru the door...