Always scheming, scarcely dreaming–is it bits, or bats, or both? Wind around a wrinkled walrus, best amend your tale of woe. ‘Cause it’s simple, as a pimple, for anyone to see, that the crazy isn’t lazy to the dreaming and the me. But don’t listen (there’s a siren) to the babbling I make. Every time I cough or chortle, I’ve most likely made a mistake.
Or have I wandered oddly off the road into the trees?
A tawny force a’canting,
in a melancholy spire,
does cry and waver, ranting
among blackened souls afire.
The split and crackle churning,
always wrought by leavened hale,
attempts to quench the burning
in a mixed-up, sundry tale.
By sultry fates asunder,
those calamities do gaze
into most guarded plunder,
only whets desire to raze.
Waking chaos few survived,
glimmered through the murky none,
wetly splashed and yet deprived
of kismet forever done.
Espouse that fantastic land, that porous slate through terrible glade. Wisps swim to curl night among ether and silver shale–pale vortexes swept and sullied, inking silken scrawls for rend and rape of dreg and coughing man. Entail, so wroth be the wanderer, of platitude and tale spoken beyond listless temper. Echos or whispers or tide-battered bones slipped to steal unwary souls and filth and empty blood borne of order and contempt.
A conundrum espies an infinite wake, bereft of solace, robbed of succor. Instead, splendor and convoluted mirages ripple and entreaty fealty or some semblance of instrumentality beyond obvious and unrepentant madness.
It sings of listless fate
and they listen
The pariah raves for reprieve
but damned perfectly
Tortured ceaselessly by forever
Still, a blink pierces the vale and cruelly illuminates every sordid fleck and sardonic splinter of corrupted tapestry. Driven unreality crafts this mockery of fantastic oblivion, voracious and intent to rend sanity through tantalizing simulacrum inspired by grievous shadows cast beneath vile imitations of predictable automatons.
I’m a writer, these pop into my head. That’s life.
“It is not enough to be a just leader of men. For how can one rest knowing men need leaders at all? Gently cast down those that idolize or they shall eternally subjugate themselves.”
“What is melancholy but the purest conviction there’s been some terrible mistake?”
Until Tomorrow
