Saturday 4 March 2017

Convalescence

Today is one of those days where I have too much to say so I decide to say nothing at all. By saying nothing through meaningless morphemes strung together in a grammatically acceptable manner, I should think that my mind would tire of thinking. 

I

Well-wishes are tinged with bitterness as a bright future reveals itself in the darkness burnt by candlelight. Embittered growls pierce through the choking steam in the cubicle, while clawed fists send a reverberating chill through the bones that run through these walls. Only in such a space, with a mirror blurred by denial, can one look at one's own reflection and feel no sense of remorse. 

II

Even the fabled candle made of a tortured Mermaid's fat will someday burn out, leaving behind only a charred wick infinitely mundane. A reminder that dreams are fabricated by the unmythical organ known as the human brain. Hope is the soot of the dull wick exacerbated by the flames of a mermaid's soul, while love is the melting wax that burns the very skin that gave it purpose. 

III

On a windy plain where the tall grasses are as fair as the faded colour of your hair, I stand scattering dried buds of the Buckwheat flower. May their seeds, devoid of life, find peace among the wind that brings them home. Should they blossom again, let them be as colourless as my heart. 

IV

A being untouched by time exists within my mind yet walks on two feet under the very same Moon as I. Wrapped up in senses, only its essence from a time before now and a time far from now is able to shape the reality breathed by my existence. As the present is timeless, I am undisturbed by the setting sun every morning and the rising sun every evening. 

V

Like a photographed silhouette, her hair that blends with the waves of sunset troubles me so. The expression on her face, I cannot see, but I feel anger welling up inside me as the sun glows redder still. With her bare hands she dares scoop up the purity of spring and bring it close to her lips, while her feet sink deep into the fine sands of this lonely island, spreading her roots that it may grasp firmly its very core. 

VI

"You pathetic thing" comes the whisper behind gritted teeth. One cannot hope when one's heart is filled with hatred. Follow the path of that who seeks revenge, and satisfaction will come by way of flowing blood. Follow the path of that who loves like a fool, and satisfaction will come by way of self-inflicted suffering. Neither grant peace, but both allow honour to be upheld, that nobody should recognise. 

VII

The priestesses lined up by the columns of my skirt still fail to bless my soul. The seams come undone in a golden thread that weaves itself back onto the tapestry of infinity, which seen from below, makes infinity only temporal. 









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