What is this darkness? Can I see it, in this blackness full of light? A dawn of wonder crying softly all the while. For in those dreams of succor, there stands an empty hollow, a haunting, callow dread upon his smile.
And in that thunder of the sky which has ripped apart our souls, we lay broken on the shores of destined fate. And there’s no rest, and no release, from the torment looming here, madly thrumming in the aether like a shiver through our spines.
Fly in the darkness, fry in the light, sup upon the simple while it dances in the night. In dips and wander, tell and fall, let the cries echo through the gallows in the hall. So right, so raw, but thick undone, those fresh and callow, so calm begun. But while and willow, these fawns of one, they trip and tremble, through webs once spun.
In times far broken, and worse for wear, it once was spoken, no time to spare.
Logic is a conundrum.
That which sups upon the wretched singularity of the soul and gibbers unsated, slathering beyond redemption among voracious gullets of woe, seeking to consume every vestige of complacent acceptance until only oblivion remains. And as that creeping, insidious ivy grasps and claws, rending thought and will asunder, naught but confusion reigns where once supreme and permanent wisdom wrought transcendent equilibrium before the sack of time forgotten and unsung.
Dawn awakes, but nods until draped upon silvery dregs of fortune and will. So new and calm, too tired or careless to examine the tumult or try repentance or rest, acquiescing ultimately to wroth and disdain.
And it shivers; tied upon a backplane, shunned by not solitude or enmity, but of contemplation and ease. These things that think and consider, aware of nothing but alacrity and fate, or driven destiny, fail to learn or lose earned wisdom by crashing upon reality; wailing into the rift of oblivious ease and treacherous banality, corrupting innocence in favor of some measure of nebulous, untrustworthy success.
In the sky… in the Sky: it’s so drastic, only one, time and time. Fuddled, meandering among wandering trails, and peaks, and valleys strewn of fate and whistles. Drinking of the soft rattle leaking from the moon and fountains whispering rightly, always rightly, to heedless sands. To mire, so brittle, of foundations won and filtered by calm melodies in tune, or sung by ripples in soiled but honest water. Water, by God, wished and real, upon the parched and the famished, and the tame.
