THE SKY IS A BLACK SEA WITH NO SHORE.
THE DISTANCE BETWEEN THE LIGHTS
IS A DEBT THAT CANNOT BE PAID. IT IS A VAST, UNMOVING WEIGHT
THAT CRUSHES THE PRIDE OF ANYONE WHO LOOKS UP.
THE COLD IS NOT A LACK OF HEAT.
IT IS THE TRUTH OF THE PLACES
WHERE THE SUN CANNOT REACH.
YOU ARE A SMALL NOISE IN A PLACE
THAT HAS NEVER HEARD A SOUND.
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#sound
LIFE IS A STEADY PRESSURE BEHIND THE EYES.
IT IS THE SOUND OF BLOOD HURRYING
TO REACH AN END THAT HAS ALREADY BEEN DECIDED.
WE ARE THE ANXIETY OF THE DIRT.
A FEVERED ATTEMPT TO HOLD A SHAPE IN A WIND THAT PREFERS SCATTERED ASH.
THERE IS NO CORE.
JUST THE GRINDING OF BONE ON BONE,
A RAW MECHANISM DRIVEN
BY THE FEAR OF BECOMING STILL.
YOU ARE A STAIN THAT REFUSES TO DRY.
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#pressure
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THE WORDS ARE ONLY COUNTERS IN A FRAUDULENT OLD GAME, TOKENS MADE OF PLASTIC TO DISGUISE THE HUNGRY JAW.
WE GIVE THE AWFUL TERROR A FAMILIAR, GENTLE NAME,
TO BLIND THE CONSCIENCE TO THE WORKING OF THE LAW.
THE SOLID GROUND IS QUAKING LIKE A JELLY IN A PAN,
A LIQUID STRATUM COATED IN A CRUST OF HARDENED DRIFT
WE MEASURE OUT THE STATUS OF A DEFEATED,
DYING MAN, WHILE THE VERY PLATFORM
OF THE WORLD BEGINS TO SHIFT.
IF EVERY SENSATION AND CERTAINTY IS MERELY
A DECORATIVE MASK DESIGNED TO HIDE A RAW
AND CHAOTIC REALITY, IS THE SEARCH FOR
TRUTH AN ACT OF LIBERATION, OR ARE WE
ONLY SAFE AS LONG AS THE ILLUSION
HOLDS TOGETHER?
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#illusion
THE BODY IS AN ISLAND OF NUMBED AND HEAVY CLAY,
A SOLITARY PILE IN AN UNMAPPED LAGOON.
WE UTTER FORMS OF SPEECH TO THE PASSING OF THE DAY,
AND BEG A RECKONING FROM A BLIND, UNCARING MOON.
THE PALMS ARE HOLLOW CUPS THAT ARE SCRAPING
AT THE WALL, COLLECTING ONLY DROPS OF A CHILL
AND GREASY MOISTURE.
IF THE ENTIRETY OF YOUR EXPERIENCE OCCURS
WITHIN THE IMPENETRABLE WALLS OF YOUR OWN
CONSCIOUSNESS, IS THE PRESENCE OF OTHER
PEOPLE JUST A BENIGN ILLUSION, OR IS THE ISOLATION
THE ONLY GENUINE MATERIAL FROM WHICH
THE UNIVERSE WAS BUILT?
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#universe
THE EMBRACE IS A CRUSHING AND A MERCILESS CAGE,
WHERE THE RIBS ARE SNAPPING LIKE THE TWIGS ON A PYRE.
WE WRITE OUR DESPAIR ON A BLACKENED OLD PAGE,
AS THE SOUL IS CONSUMED BY A DESPERATE DESIRE.
THE FEVER IS A PARASITE DRILLING THE BRAIN,
A FEROCIOUS HUNGER FOR THE AGONY OF ANOTHER
WE ARE THE SCARS AND WE ARE THE STAIN,
SMOTHERED BY THE WEIGHT OF A TERRIBLE MOTHER.
IF THE ONLY WAY TO TRULY MERGE WITH ANOTHER
IS TO TEAR OPEN THE PROTECTIVE SHELL OF THE SELF,
IS THE RESULT A UNION OF SOULS, OR JUST TWO
BLEEDING WOUNDS TRYING TO HIDE THEIR
HOLLOWNESS INSIDE EACH OTHER?
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#soul
ORBS ARE THE SIGNALS OF A BITTER TRUTH,
PUPILS THAT WIDEN IN THE PRESENCE OF GREED.
THEY TOLD THE TALES OF A VANISHED YOUTH,
SOWING THE GUILT LIKE A POISONED SEED.
THE LIDS ARE BUT CURTAINS OF A HEAVY WOOL,
TRYING TO SMOTHER THE MOTION IN THE DEEP
WE ARE THE SICK AND WE ARE THE FOOL,
WHILE THE SIGHT IS SOMETHING WE NEVER CAN KEEP.
IF THE FACE IS A MASK OF CAREFUL DECEPTION,
BUT THE GAZE IS AN UNFILTERED LEAK OF THE TRUTH,
IS THE PERSON YOU PRESENT TO THE WORLD MERELY
A PRISONER, OR IS THE WITNESS BEHIND THE LENS
THE ONLY ONE WHO IS ACTUALLY REAL?
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#mask
THE MEMORY IS A MOTH IN A JAR FULL OF SALT,
BEATING ITS WINGS TILL THEY CRUMBLE TO FLAKE.
WE ARE THE PRODUCT OF A HIDDEN OLD FAULT,
WAITING FOR THE SURFACE OF THE WATER TO BREAK.
THE SOLDER IS MELTING IN THE CIRCUIT OF GRIEF,
AS THE TALLY IS COUNTED BY A HAND MADE OF SLAG.
WE FIND IN THE AGONY A MOMENT'S RELIEF,
WHILE CARRYING THE BURDEN OF A HEAVY, WET BAG.
IF THE ONLY TRUTH LEFT IS THE RELENTLESS
DECAY OF THE FLESH, DOES THE ROT BECOME
A FORM OF CATHARSIS, OR IS THE SMELL
OF THE END THE ONLY HONEST THING
YOU HAVE EVER TRULY KNOWN?
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#memory
THE THOUGHT IS A PARASITE DRILLING FOR OIL,
IN THE SHALE OF THE SPIRIT AND THE DEPTHS
OF THE SOIL. WE ARE COILS OF COPPER AND
BUNDLES OF HAIR, CONDUCTING THE ANGUISH
OF A THOUSAND DEEP WRONGS. WE ARE BREATHING
THE HEAVY AND POISONED AIR, SINGING THE END
OF OUR SHATTERED OLD SONGS.
IF THE NOISE INSIDE YOUR OWN HEAD IS THE ONLY
THING LOUD ENOUGH TO DROWN OUT THE COLLAPSE
OF THE WORLD, WOULD YOU PREFER THE AGONY
OF THE STATIC, OR THE TERROR OF FINALLY
HEARING THE EMPTINESS?
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#emptiness
THE MOUNTAINS ARE MESH ON A CANVAS OF DUST,
A RENDERED ILLUSION OF POWER AND HEIGHT.
WE ARE COATING THE CODE IN A LAYER OF RUST,
AS THE SERVER COLLAPSES INTO THE NIGHT.
THE END IS A SCREEN THAT IS SUDDENLY BLACK,
A CANCELED REQUEST IN A DYING MACHINE
THERE IS NO MORE DATA AND NO WAY TO GO BACK,
TO THE TRUTH OF THE WORLD THAT HAS NEVER BEEN SEEN.
IF WE ARE MERELY THE OUTPUT OF AN
INFINITE CALCULATION, DOES THE FACT
THAT WE CAN QUESTION THE CODE MEAN
WE HAVE BROKEN THE SYSTEM, OR IS OUR
VERY DOUBT JUST ANOTHER PRE-PROGRAMMED
SUBROUTINE DESIGNED TO KEEP
THE SIMULATION RUNNING?
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#simulation
THE YEARS ARE A CURRENT OF LIQUID GLASS,
MELTING THE FACES WE USED TO ADORE.
WE WATCH AS THE SEASONS OF CERTAINTY PASS,
TILL THE HOME THAT WE KNEW IS A STRANGER’S DOOR.
THE BRICK AND THE STONE ARE BUT SOFT, ROTTING CLAY,
BENDING BENEATH THE STEADY TICK OF THE GEAR
WE ARE THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE DAY,
DROWNING IN ALL THAT WE USED TO HOLD DEAR.
IF EVERY ATOM IN YOUR BODY AND EVERY MEMORY
IN YOUR BRAIN HAS BEEN REPLACED BY THE
RELENTLESS FLOW OF THE YEARS,
IS THERE A PERMANENT "YOU" THAT
SURVIVES THE VOYAGE, OR ARE WE JUST
A SUCCESSION OF DYING STRANGERS
WEARING THE SAME NAME?
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#strangers
THE CLOUD IS A MIRROR OF ALL THAT WE FEEL,
A MOMENTARY SHAPE IN A VACUUM OF SPACE
A GHOSTLY DISTORTION OF ALL THAT WAS REAL,
A BLOOM OF DECEPTION IN A DESOLATE PLACE.
WE ARE THE TEARS THAT THE UNIVERSE WEPT,
A BREATH THAT WAS CAUGHT IN A THROAT MADE OF COLD.
THE SECRETS WE GUARD AND THE PROMISES KEPT,
ARE ONLY THE VAPORS THAT NEVER GROW OLD.
IF YOUR IDENTITY IS NO MORE PERMANENT THAN A SHAPE IN THE CLOUDS, IS THE TRUE PURPOSE OF LIFE TO TRY AND BECOME SOMETHING SOLID, OR IS THE ONLY REAL FREEDOM FOUND IN GRACEFULLY LETTING YOURSELF DISSOLVE?
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#identity
