The art of saving grace, the sound so soothing of blinds shut.
The hours, described in numbers, dropping by like changing flies.
The numerals, so insuring with themselves, arguing on the times to come, the savage steps of becoming madness and all the lies to be tell.
I speak not of the things that I could think but of the oblivious nature, the transcending degree of abstract that plagues the unwashed eye.
For it is, above all, the constant state of change, the cutting of the culling and the changes of one’s mind…
I speak of what it is to hale, and to speak of all the dead languages, to scream in unison, to declare what should be altered and what should, by force, set in stone.
Standing, taking the stage and declaring this to be but folly…
Searching, in search of an unkept seclusion, when we all but tried to run away, cringing at the verge of deceit, asking, screaming in anger to be free and to reach said state.
Drawing near, that sense of self, never to be held by the nerve of one’s existence, since all that we reach is but a arm’s length, grasping to know to include this knowledge is what we all hope to examine and write about.
Still, the pages are blank to the sound, since the sound seems to falter, knowing not what the noose ties, since the ties seem to have been broken with time and time seems to laps on itself, over and over, and over again.
We declare, from what we can search to find, that we would rather live on the edge, that feel the verge of existence, still, we don’t understand what it is, that it lies, on the other side of the side.
Still on the outside, still gazing in wonder, at what this side could hold for those who would dare to step in, stepping out of themselves, stating in this cold, but warm, stillness.
Stargazing then, beyond what can be beheld, longing for that substance, that sensation of belonging that carves down, deep inside, heart, soul and mind.
Close the sensation, leave every feeling behind, throw in the collateral damage and let the good time fly.
I speak not of consistency, I regret not.
I speak ill, in such a manner that retorts for hours on end, to the unwinding disaster.
The art of saving grace, escaping disaster, rather staying shut inside, hiding, hidden, secluded and lost.
The simplest art. Does not go for the living.
The hours, described in numbers, dropping by like changing flies.
The numerals, so insuring with themselves, arguing on the times to come, the savage steps of becoming madness and all the lies to be tell.
I speak not of the things that I could think but of the oblivious nature, the transcending degree of abstract that plagues the unwashed eye.
For it is, above all, the constant state of change, the cutting of the culling and the changes of one’s mind…
I speak of what it is to hale, and to speak of all the dead languages, to scream in unison, to declare what should be altered and what should, by force, set in stone.
Standing, taking the stage and declaring this to be but folly…
Searching, in search of an unkept seclusion, when we all but tried to run away, cringing at the verge of deceit, asking, screaming in anger to be free and to reach said state.
Drawing near, that sense of self, never to be held by the nerve of one’s existence, since all that we reach is but a arm’s length, grasping to know to include this knowledge is what we all hope to examine and write about.
Still, the pages are blank to the sound, since the sound seems to falter, knowing not what the noose ties, since the ties seem to have been broken with time and time seems to laps on itself, over and over, and over again.
We declare, from what we can search to find, that we would rather live on the edge, that feel the verge of existence, still, we don’t understand what it is, that it lies, on the other side of the side.
Still on the outside, still gazing in wonder, at what this side could hold for those who would dare to step in, stepping out of themselves, stating in this cold, but warm, stillness.
Stargazing then, beyond what can be beheld, longing for that substance, that sensation of belonging that carves down, deep inside, heart, soul and mind.
Close the sensation, leave every feeling behind, throw in the collateral damage and let the good time fly.
I speak not of consistency, I regret not.
I speak ill, in such a manner that retorts for hours on end, to the unwinding disaster.
The art of saving grace, escaping disaster, rather staying shut inside, hiding, hidden, secluded and lost.
The simplest art. Does not go for the living.
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