The world relies on the dead to move forward…
The world chasticizes desertions and deteriorations,
But then, why should I? I am here because there had been
Space made for me here. I am now living where one man
Had lived before. I am now breathing the air possibly breathed
By another man before. Half my prayers were written by men
Who prayed nothing before they learned how to share chants.
Half the answers to my early tests where proven correct by them,
Samely. Surely, I can offer little flowers and candles that mean
Nay to them… Their prayers are little flowers still blooming.
Their answers, little candles still growing brighter for all.
When I pass, too, who shall take my place, and is it
A place worth standing over? Are my exhales gladly
To be sanctified, or am I the next century’s symbol
For the unforgiving? I will never forgive myself if that
Ever happens to the memory of myself, if there’s to be any.
I light now candles. I grow now flowers. Fragrance, fragrance,
Fragrance sans pain…
The pasteurized non-aggression of the Black Ernz had made it to my veins.
Life merely begs to be ghoulish, and the men who illustrates, all then
Spiraling, starved of permanence. All tag-alongs are but entrapped…
BABY WITH THE TRIGGER, CHECK THIS– Check in and break in
Your jumpy shoes. It is but unfortunate how we cannot reverse time.
Time is never factored in. Time is our viability. Our residencies with
Immersion and revulsion and ratty yammerings and reactings and
Feigning reacting to all things contradictory and all things preventable
Are what make us human enough to be disliked and disqualified, for
We are each other’s rivals and we are nobody’s rivals. CHECK THIS–
Engender the almost endangered bailers of La Casa Endura, let me assure you
That today is a swift day to be judgy, to judge, and to be judged. I am human,
After all, and so are thee all. Dress does not hide me as dress does not hide ye.
We are of same origin, one somber star colliding in and to itself, after all.
Aging and unceasing mismanagement of dreams, mired– beholden, the damned– founders of Kumari Kandam!
The land of the dreams de rigueur nucleated by artificial people with votice offerings drying in the sun. STARBOARD!!
STARBOARD!! Salvation is not that overrated, trust me. If you’ve ever been in hell, it’s what you’ll always dream and breathe about.
Muggy dreams; emaciated dreams; dreams of being roped up, tied up, dead in a year; dreams of never failing, never snookering,
Never jealous of others’ newer trajectory. I stare at the moody man in front of me, the undaring painter who I failed in my time,
Basil Hallward. I tell you, boastless beau of years ago: I like myself more when I’m full. I don’t get visited by the usual devils.
I don’t get visited by the temptations by you.
The world relies on the dead to move forward.
I rely on memories and dreams and money…
…What about you?
Great discipline comes often unapproved to lousy inquests and lousy enumerators. To save a soul, you must spare a soul. To spare a life, you must first take care of yours, which is to you and the world that deeply impacts you, the first lousy and undisciplined soul of all. Sour are those who know not how to command clemency by their wrists, thumbs, tongue. Do not be misguided and do not misjudge those who appear to ride or slay or decide for dragons and tall towers. While the latter have learned or will have to learn of submission, the former only often glints their beady-black-or-blue eyes through and by power and will engorge themselves through and by this power alone. Learn of leniency first. This is the undocumented Word of the Lord. Learn of love that is not drowsy in terms of defeat, but rises to the occasion when all occasions call for no controversy and falls for no lowly atone.
Misericordiam me up, hoes.