I am screaming at my shoes. Hanging on a promise from a lover, I wait like a hermit at the stake. I see you hawk the sacrament in a reverie of acquiescence, melt away, and demur.
I got to go, people.
Chime through the theatre of Strength. An enervating performance is set to begin which shall tax all tolerance. Elements of character meet your gaze at the corridor, insurgent, red disdain in corrupt augmentations. An uneasy condition, we gorge ourselves on our own to prevent the apprehension of relentlessness.
I’ve been expecting you.
Come in. It’s all for your benefit.
We lack hysteria, the formlessness that will live forever as dank calls to action founder forgotten.
I am headed for adoration in the deep longing for nothingness. The essence of conventional lives of ritual vanity expressed in soulful, sweet remnants’ inevitable reek, terrible in their subterranean sin of a clinging rage, leaves us at a loss to explain what we see.
I process forms, encouraging war on the defiled, always aware of their reflective meaning. Left to languish in their soul’s execution, the tautness of their purposeless laments, the brazen tread over their bodies, talking on a tiny, cancer-giving device all the while, an eye is closed. A world rejoins the darkness beyond night. The time that was shall ever/never exist. The stillness, preoccupied, drawn in to that nowhere, has become aware of an odd, embryonic authority.