In these mad times, who are we but the embryos of futility, dragging our carcasses across stone lit dawn? Where haphazard circumstance bleeds viscous phlegm onto a blind god's palms, compassion is irreverent. Liquid is liquid- might be rain, might be blood, your word against mine. How then do we stumble forward, hoping at be to catch a break and not be cast off with the flow of tide? At peak hour for moratorium, the best we can offer is paltry and honest submission to our chemistry, to the science that give us sight, and the sighing that rings our plight. Never letting the effortless stipulations extracted from half-beating hearts bear the torch for the day's grudge yields only the optimal insignificance required to coexist. The dotted red lines speak truth but neglect the frenzied art of the moment, and sometimes cynicism is mistaken for reason in shaving with Occam's razor. If only half the centerfold desires of the moment were manifest in tranquil awe before our wildest imaginings- maybe then could we actually participate. Maybe then. Maybe then becomes the idealist's repertoire and, to the ears of said judge, grandiloquence.
So we spit in the gentle faces and wipe away our broken tears with a grim hope that shiver is reflex and not mode, that the humming is pretense, and not the song. Shy, shy away from the glimmer. Shy, shy away from the tremors. Never again insult or castigate the hand that blends truth in the slip of finger and calls it art.
No, no, we are not the sole surveyors of this anomaly. We instead ratchet up and ratchet down until the bolt's too tight to slip and worn of grip. In my fondest memories somewhere, a hero swarms the battlements and waves no flag. He swings no swords, he sings no chords. Just watches as prophecy unravels and reveals then turns in spite, and burns in flight.
Never give to the thicket what the tree will drop of its own accord.