The View From Glass Stairs

In the absence of vision.

With the weight of becoming unseen.

A train’s chatter,

Along the lines of destructive intrigue.

One, taken;

Three, empty;

All around, full.

It truly takes a stretch of thought.

Upon the artwork, the photography too.

Space taken by those I thought I knew.

Yet… what does one really know?

Stuck in intrinsic invasion,

Stuck in everything that’s not.

Belief in nothing.

Frosted edges of razor blades.

Sickle, stabbing, absolutely frozen.

Miles thick, impenetrable.

The Arctic Shelf; an orphan of youth.

The girl with the white hair.

Always living in utmost proof.

I sat, in the room of longing;

Peering into oil on canvas, sights unseen.

Worlds of vision,

And worlds of creative dreams.

Hung in the cold, seen by those without capability.

My own visage, catastrophic.

Amid the benevolent voices;

Being unseen, the lifestyle of it.

Being forgotten; forgetting myself.

That youth, the simplistic hilarity.

Invisible where people come to view.

The Gallery of None-Description.

An altar in the religion of Narcissism.

And still… their laughter haunts.

The Old Traverser

That man, he walks high.

Old Traverser, they call him.

Through deep snow, in the hallow wind.

 

Alone, he watches the night’s stars.

A glow from the heavens up high.

 

With the rising of the sun;

And the cawing of all birds,

He walks once more, to the ends of the earth.

 

In the light of all days to come.

Behind, his footprints in life; a line towards home.

But, this is his earth, a venture unknown.

Teetering on those ridges, above all existence.

On the shale of ocean bottoms;

In the bones of sick creatures.

 

Sometimes he wishes, he might just speak one word.

To see the brightness in another’s truly warm eyes.

To feel skin beside his own.

And yet, this is the simple life he utterly chose.

To be the wanderer, the ghost amid the hills.

 

Occasionally he glances down;

On towards the Valley of No Words.

Whose streets he once slumbered, in the face of all throes.

It is of no interest to such a man,

And so he walks on.

 

Eerie is the land without wind.

Without power and all that makes living sing.

Though, he is the Old Traverser,

The man in need of nothing.

Happenings In Time

I think, some days are just not long enough.

Morning to evening; time lost.

Evening to morning; time unidentifiable.

Something and nothing.

An immutable something amidst those endless nothings.

Signing away time.

Locking it away for later use.

Then realising, it cannot be used at all.

Realising the moment is all there is.

The very second of a happening.

Not before, and neither after.

And even then, after everything;

Some things just aren’t.

And other things just are;

This is all anything ever is.

Moments of time drifting through the cosmos.

Blankets

A land exploding with vagrants.

Meandering for sense and purpose.

In doing what we always do.

Abiding by those set, fickle rules.

Instigated by the redundantly brainless.

It seems like we’re here to lose.

But maybe, one day we can rise;

Rise to the top and search for truth.

For we are people of truly naive youth.

But look, it’s not so hard to see.

Things aren’t going the way they need to be.

Though, the true answers are hidden,

Beneath a winter blanket of selfishness.

Beneath a warm blanket of self-interest.

So, maybe we need to feel the cold for awhile.

For Ourselves

People, they sit and they watch.

Looking back, and towards the clocks.

Sitting, sleeping, not getting along.

In this world, this frail, frail place;

Masses, trying to keep the retched, insane pace.

And for what, gratification, social acceptance.

Abiding to rules set by our fake directors.

Thinking, thoughtlessely believing in what is said.

Characteristic of the utterly brain-dead.

But I do not blame, and I do not begrudge.

For it is all of humanity that swims in the sludge.

Oh, what can be done. And where is the light.

One that might shine on the unforgiving night.

 

Abide

Hoping For No End

Looking, and waiting for the words.

They don’t always appear.

They’re not always there.

But it is okay;

I cannot always live a life in fear.

 

I hope. I truly do.

Hoping there is no end, no discontinuation,

In what I have come to love

And what I always will.

Without… the world would be utterly bland.

Empty of what I have come to know.

 

In times before, I was something else.

Someone else.

Lurking in the depths of some dark place.

Invisible to even myself.

 

And so, I thank.

All that has happened,

And all that you’ve done.

Memories crafted, memories felt.

For it means more than most else.

Tiny Stories – Goodbye Reality

Goodbye Reality


I pick up a coffee. But as the barista hands me the cup, it wobbles, and morphs, contracting, in and out, in and out. I take it in my own, hand over the money, and leave without collecting the change. I have to get outside, into the relative light, into a place that is not so constricting, so abrasive.

I haven’t slept for a number nights. Once or twice a year, things get like this. Night after night, for a few weeks sleep rarely comes at all. And if it does in fact show its face, it is for a tiny, unmotivating amount of time.

Days, they melt into each other. Darkness flows into light, and back again. This is how it goes, and this is how I accept it. It is something I have no power over, no choice but to be a part of. The fabric of reality blurs at the corners, tearing and ripping, morphing into something sinister, something beyond the boundaries, the limitations of human comprehension. It is as if the world has become something else. It is as if my eyes are seeing things they are not intended to, things they were not designed to.

Sometimes I am scared. Scared of the shapes and sounds that I see and hear. Those that are unique to me, those that others do not experience. I am not psychotic, I am not slipping into any designation of psychosis. For myself, this is complete reality, nothing but. At least it is a temporary reality, while things work out, while sleep is on its vacation.

Walking down the street, all faces turn my way. Some possessing only eyes, some hardly faces at all, but mounds of skin, undefinable. No matter what they are, no matter who owns them, they all look towards me, staring right through my soul, peering into places of privacy. I will them to stop, over and over again. But they do not. I feel like a magnet for eyes, a black hole for suspicion. I am just human. I am no different! I beg them to look away, will God to make it so.

I am falling apart. Reality is becoming something else. I exist within a perpetual slumber, completely disconnected from the world. It is not a new feeling, of course it isn’t. Although every time it comes around it seems to grow in intensity, in its numbing strangeness. I become a puppet to it. A leaf blowing in the wind of some higher force, some higher entity who has sole control over my mind, my consciousness.

I know will end, or at least… it has before. After some time, it has always retired back to where it dwells, building the energy to strike again. And so I wait for that moment in time when it recedes, when it crawls back, when it frees my mind. Until that point, coffee is my best friend. And reality is something I cannot even consider, something I question the very nature of.