I cannot speak with my voice, so I speak with my voices.
Those eyes were the entrance to the temple, for me, a wanderer who loves and dies - I would've sung until merging with the
night, until dissolving naked at the beginning of time.
A song - a tunnel I pass through.
Disquieting presences,
gestures of figures that spring to life through the workings of an active language that alludes to their shape,
signs insinuating insoluble terrors.
A trembling of the frame, a tremor through the foundation, the draining and drilling,
and I know where that thing is lodged - that great otherness of my self, that lies in wait for me to be silenced before it can take
possession of me, and drain and drill into the frame, the foundation -
that part of my self that opposes from within, that schemes - that takes possesion of my fallowness,
no,
I should do something;
no,
I should do nothing at all,
something inside me won't give in to the avalanche of ash that can sweep through my insides with her who is me, with myself
who is she and is I, unspeakably different from her.
To swallow the night in its very silence (which is not to say every silence) - a night that's immense, and immersed in the stealth
of lost footsteps.
I can't just speak and say nothing. That's how we lose ourselves, the poem and I, in the hopeless attempt to write the things that
burn.
turnnoffyourmind
jacobvanloon
vaporwave
theartofmadeline
tangentwithtanner
dededos
kianamaiart
baratheonpilled
