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the 666 words

there is no right or wrong… aspects of the ridiculous wings of faith… deceptive ends to the chaotic fine wires of peace… there is the taking of things for granted… skating on thin ice in the middle of summer… snippets of a greater piece of harmony… one that accepts the animal and the intellect… what grounds we tread that slowly creeps like vine and ivy… the surging likenesses of a darker whim that only the dispossessed find solace within… there are such sacred arts that one cannot penetrate by will alone… the Crow leads us on with flight path thrown for loops and loops as we stare bewildered at the mess made gently… the scary thoughts seem to permeate the lost souls that inhabit a material world left to our own devices… the hum between the trees floating like melody through the drifting winds… the fight back getting tedious all the time until the spirit is killed by the harmless accidental loss of faith… Here are the maiming things that betray the inner nature spiking the punch and kicking scream that echoes from cold stone wall to cold stone wall… we seem to say these things to emptiness as the flesh never sits long enough for listening and understanding… a brain rattling around the skull tries to appear attentive, but fails with a miserable expression on its face… a stiff fountain eroding mountainous trends set into by other friends of the dissonance… a breakneck speed at which to fling oneself into the flow that we are going with… are there any substances that remain substantial today?… the frightening essence of life everlasting, and outlasting a solid feeling of looking back… beyond the holes in hearts so common in ones so young… we set a wayward system in motion to never stop pushing us away… it lives to destroy itself and its plans… the waddling mass moving like a penguin percolating from a frozen fetish ritualizing the pain of being… Pavlov’s mutt we are to beg for forgiven flames of desire, but what do we know of this trance-like state of fear and sorrow from which it seems as though we cannot pass and adapt?… the bestial minds itself among the unfamiliar traits and tricks that make up the crass mood of mankind… the stark compassion that pulls us to our collective knees in regret and tears, and turns our souls from lead into gold with the right moves taken… few times appeal to the horde like the truth of a contemplation rationalizing bravery amidst the damned movements of indecision’s kiss… it lays across our forehead in a blissful waking state with our eyes closed as we walk into the fire… the tunnel grows sharp as it inserts and asserts itself in the anatomy of gesturing symbols… they twist apart and leave their striking point in the conscious plane… it changes from mouth to mouth for a chance to stick somewhere that it has never been before… a furious freak out that we can’t see as deftly as we need… under the surface, it mates itself sparingly with torrential outpouring of restless emotions… the nodes of distress take us by the hands, and present us toward the sun as a fierce blazing sets in upon our skin… scalded and scolded by the passion to get out of Here before it becomes too difficult to handle everything at once… trading the tricks of survival in for those lies of submission… sleep is that great equalizer that takes years of practice to get right, and centuries longer to make certain it sustains the spiritual body… the poisoned self stares at the wall as though there is no tomorrow, but the obstacles lie like casual observers that only seem to make sense over the ruins of another era insane with mad human ants in the wake of panic… a crazy banished subhuman that oozes over eons of guilt and repressed emotive engineering… native woes of the melting finite knowledge housed beneath…

Thanks, khet.