Chimes in the wind,
Voices in the air.
I question the validity
of this experiencial pride.

Clatters without collision.
Cream tastes like sugar.
I question the obscurity
of this simple experience.

Pancake tastes like clouds and dreams.
And I cannot forget again.

The disquieting song rings distantly.
The performance's end calls again.
Let us not delay, and once more fade.
Over again, this again.

Agony did wake me in the weary country.
Where I laid, in quiet sleep.
Upon my skull the pain had risen,
Though not as much as beforehand.

Falling in the sands of this sea,
I rip from the grains that did bury me,
And leave a piece behind.

Where the sands are heated to a frozen cold,
And the air is burning with ice-marked colors,
Distant mirages speak of a lying tale,
But I know my destination, this time, again.

These marks of burns and tears on my form,
Were they there before?
When did I...?

The approaching citadel of empty theatrics,
Still shines with monochrome iridescence.
And still, I must finish the song.

To weep to an audience of sand,
To dance with the piercing air,
Put to question nothing,
And let this music of tormented entertainment guide your steps.
And to wake, here, again.

Distasteful is the edge that cuts at this silk
That connects the I to all other things.
The wind that moves to steps I took
Will be the blade that relief me of my puppeteer.

Bow now, the performance is over.
Until I wake once more from the pale sands.

I did write of a song of old,
A story I tell and tales I told.
Love in fantasized duality folds.

And this sum of partiality,
That marks my feasibility,
Where her impossibility,
Met mine, unwillingly.

Can you love a fractured whole,
Whose eyes cannot see its soul,
But head ever dream of passing moles,
And wear at pitch the graceless pole,
To not beside this empty hole?

I did write a song of old,
A story I tell and tales I told.
Her beads of glass that fills this mold,
Did bring a newfound hope.
To dreams unwoven in this soul,
I cannot bring another fold.

And thus, the void remains,
Unfulfilled and unfazed.

Out of thought, out of naught, out of thought, out of fault-
Where is it? Where indeed-
Cyclical to the end, and the beginning-
Unresolved, out of whack, spinning and spinning onward and onward-
And backwards, to whereto?-
Falling and falling-

crack

What was that?

Emptiness erupts from in the shell,
Roaring the song of the heart.

Out of thought, out of naught,
Out of thought, out of naught,
Logic ceased before I remembered to think.
Thinking and thinking and-

It looks,
The 2 colors mix and match and become everything,
The maze warp to their ego,
Running and running and-

Threading my way through the forest of *******,
The trails end and begin together,
Here and nowhere,
Foward and backward and-

Raise your arm 30° upward,
Point your hand towards the sky,
Spin round 3 times.
Elegance of the unspoken still spinning and spinning and-

Winds are like shears that cut open the skin,
The branches cannot break my fall,
Spinal disconnection.
Still falling and falling and-

crack

Run, and do not look back.
Temptations lie close at hand.
Do not fall into their lies.

With these eyes that lie,
These mouths that pry,
These hand that cry.
Sing me an unending rebellion of souls.

The morning sun rise without ceremony, as it did, as it will.
Solace ungiven, to weave a tapestry of dreams and desires.
And, in their apathy shown, without mercy, a mirrored visage.
To hoard every treasure of the heart yet dump them all to the fire.

The noon that did come to not give peace nor rest, but tire still.
Within this emptiness there lies an unworthy thought.
"Love" to all that is not me?
But emptiness did make up that place, so empty it shall be.

The evening erupted from the distant skies and did not wake me.
The heart's discontent wavering under pain and distress.
Triangular thoughts are unstable from a fourth perspective.
Where else to turn, if not this unnamed sadness?

The night of nights fallen from the inside outwards, encompasses all.
In quietude the scales cannot balance, cannot decide an end.
He says: "Misery did make me, and misery did wake me.
Goodbye world, if you do not welcome me."
Without another word nor hesitation, the piano halts to stop.

The un-sought-for time implodes from the outside, to not break free.
Unwavering they did make me, and unwavering I am.
What for? And what is to be done?
To seek and keep all things that is not me, yet throw away my skin and flesh and tendons and bones?

The silence ends in piano grief, the lover's dream that rages still.
And light did take me then, to the vestibule's mud,
Weeping about and sinking into the filth that was thought to be deserved.
The silence did end, however.

And once more I wake, to the ceremony of another day.

Elysian dreams are made of pink and gold,
Where grounds were laid with corners that fold.
And the daily aching of the heart ceased,
Where the great lover had us meet.
The air was a fragrant of blossoming trees,
And clouds had ceased to keep us blind,
His light did clear our heads of nights,
And showed me the face I liked.
A seaside branch whose fruit bore love,
And songbirds sang like passing doves,
The dancers' grasp of touch and fond,
My will and her's did let us bond.
However short it may be.

An artist walked this plane of woe,
Where thought would never give you foes,
A tri-sect star could put to show,
An angel in the form of does.

So sweet and were we that day,
And ever lost in fools that play,
That none could see that rotting fame,
Which brought to us our greatest clay.

Had you been there to see that blight,
Perchance you may have solve this fight,
But ne'er was ease a glass soul's mate,
Those colors did tell us our night.

So no, I say, to this request,
For naught could I give to this fest,
And disturb us our dreams.