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. They fought for valor, and died in war, but none were spared, though steeped in gore. But alas…
When the rhymes fall on deadened ears, cast astray by bliss and rent by wanton lusts of flesh or power, cash or carry, tended only by rough and tumble careless needs once bred by eons wrought in pure survival, unprepared for excess, unable to egress. These needs, the taint of ferocious but unknown greed, splits to sunder all but the most righteous creed. And in this chaos of mind and spirit led astray by mesmerizing chants of faith and tradition, logic is trampled by paths of ease by those who lead.
But trick by temple looming bright, the shape is slothful, ever slight. With bliss of promise and time to spend, so long devoted but none to mend, so still the water that fell away, those dreams unspoken that went astray.
Or… maybe there was nothing enveloped by the undulating oblivion built by unchanneled terror of life and meaning gleaned from so complex interactions none truly understands another. Our souls so rich but impotent to answer but the most trivial of qualms against the yawning blackness from which we spawned, shaped by forces infinite and unimportant. So some seek to worship these things: the omnipotent aether and all it entails, or a being unwavered by entreaty with so much considered or left aside for projects yet constructed. We worship ourselves, and call it a God, those imperatives most categorical and universal we insist upon their perfect grace with veracity mostly driven by dissonance of belief and what is.
So right, so wrong, all woe, all song, so careless, so tired, they fritter, too wild. And instant, and real, they wander to feel, and little or lumber, too enamored of fate, they wallow so quickly and stop at the gate. That glimmer, that wonder, that maelstrom of transcendence sought only by the truly lost and unattached, pariahs of all else. It’s not our lot to see the truth, and those who do are hated too. By what they know, or desire not, they wander knowing the battles they fought are unimportant or even a tale, of ruptures so tiny they’re lost in the vale.
But in this rambling diatribe unencumbered by reason or form, no damage is done, except upon the speculations herein tortured though they are by a mind tumultuous and unable to rest even when addled by spirits or even unconscious adventures in dimensions explored only by nocturnal visions most strange and impossible. So sleep easy, and worry not, there’s nothing here from this gleeful sot.