The Ramblings of Saint Greyhound

journaling

Beneath the filtered light of a forest canopy

A skeleton lies in wait amongst the ferns.

Its memories have long since decayed

And any reminder of life is external.

It yearns

For the wet, warm, feeling of a beating heart and flesh,

The wet, warm, feeling of loved ones caressing its cheek,

Just the wet, warm, feeling of life.

It feels

The dry, cold feeling of solitude and loneliness,

The dry, cold feeling of being forgotten by those who left it,

Only the dry, cold feeling of death.

But as time goes on,

The wet warm feeling starts to return.

The fungi make their home in its ribs,

The sun beats down upon its skull,

The young foxes and squirrels run by on their quest for survival.

Little by little

Slumped over in my seat

Legs curled in

Arms cradling my skull

As if it were made of glass

And as my body sags further

My neurons pour out of my eyes

Dripping down my face

Like a poor replacement for tears

When they reach the ground

They shine for a single, glorious moment

Before dissipating in the wind

Fleeting in nature

But holy to those who have beheld it

Those precious neurons

Supernovas

The death of something great

Yet somehow still beautiful

As I slowly creep towards my end

I hope that others take a bit of joy

I wish to have five million eyes

Littering my dry and blemished skin

I wish to be as long as a planet’s orbit

Snaking lengthwise around the galaxy

And I wish I had a mane of hair 

Blanketing my ever-extending limbs

As I reach for the abyss

And I wish I had three mouths

Telling lies, singing hymns, and jesting with 

The dust bunnies of the cosmos

I wish to know all the truths of existence

Nothing escaping my understanding

I wish to hear five heartbeats

All pumping deep in my body

And I wish I were imperceptible

Coming and going through life as I please

Showing myself to no one

And I wish I had horns

Sitting upon my sore excuse of a head

Piercing the clouds and nebulae above

I wish to be covered in iridescent skin 

Wrought with imperfections

I wish to feel gold running in my veins

Dripping from wounds like the gods’ ichor

And I wish

And I continue to wish

And I wish to be free form my body

And I wish to be disposed of my flesh

And I wish to take a new form

Free from the arbitrary aspects of life

Left to float in the vat of consciousness