PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I sit in a nexus point in time

The branching lines of possibility and intent careening into cold space

Glossy filament, dissolved by mistakes

Whipping wildly to gales of chaotic circumstance

The unseen behemoth we so lovingly dub fate

Held together by the Weak Force of love.

But what does this construct present to us?

Are the shifting crusts that separate us from

the possible and the seen;

the fact and the felt;

solidity and aether;

the binding of sanity or the key to nirvana, accessible to only those who dare venture to the cracks?

But oh so often are those wondering fools caught in an information eruption, flaying the skin from their bones;

subsequently fated to reside within crypts of inumerable dankness. 

A rattling chest beckons the maladroit with assurance of enlightenment; an ironic statement indeed.

You'd need naught but devour your phlanges; they were useless anyway.

The chest opens, and a noxious gas assails the nostrils. cloyingly sweet, delightfully corrosive.

You awaken, sealed shut in an osseous cask, left to ponder the meaning of truth.

Is acceptance the paramount variable of validity; if so, of what number?

They say perception is reality, but what if it is skewed?

What descendant of barbarians is deemed pretentious enough to determine the straightness of the path of which he himself is nothing but a node?

Is dichotomous break between the shifting scales of gain and loss the work of the force of true justice, the entropic doings of spirit and sight?

A binaric base would agree.

I'd cleave my heart in two and hand you the bigger half, if only to convince you of my intentions' purity, even in fractured sight; but when the knife bites deep and caverns yawn wide, only black tar remains.

Embarassment.

The current runs; capacitors light and die again; the current runs.

These are the questions that I feel are true. But I know I am wrong;

for I have never existed.