DoctorNarpasLoveless

From here to there for eternity. This constant distance constricts me and transcends me as I travel through my dreams. I see myself in shattered mirrors; a million shards of unfading hope crying for resolve. And then I turn to see myself now, staring into the abyss, as if waiting for some kind of madness. As present moves to past, the abyss becomes a door, through which I move into the future. My dreams suddenly, gradually crossfade into ever-vivid reality. I travel further. The events following resemble deja-vu, and perchance such is so of some lost prophetic vision; change, like a thief in the night, from mere shards to to being they once w

Ouroboros am I who eats his tail and watches it bleed day after day, as if in a temporal prison of his own device. I stand at the threshold of eternity, and if I were so inclined I would seize it and wield it unfalteringly, and become at peace. But my eyes are clouded by the illusion of time's ashes blown away, leaving me but to eat my tail further and watch it bleed again. I am a martyr of chaos, a sleepless dreamer, a hero unborn. I am Ouroboros.

Free men entrapped in a cage gilded by faith alone sing their despairing song, which sings of a hope close to their heart and yet so far away, and echoes the inevitable, for which they wait and hope for so strongly. The gaoler, too, is a prisoner to melancholy, wilting his heart and burning his mind with a whisper of freedom; which falls on deaf ears for one so queer as to be blind to happiness. And so the caged song sings "Let the gaoler be free!" and goes unsung by the gaoler's lies, like all others an inner death of its speaker or a cure for his blindness perchance, but inevitably consequential.

Awakening is a blindness through which wisdom can see; dreaming is the solvent that brings it into being. This dreaming is becoming of the meek, whom are beckoned by it. Life, love, death, and time: these visions of the meek Are the construction of Metropolis, the citadel of dream. Its stance is erect as it reaches for the light with cloudless breath; the light of the ever-giving night which it harbors. The flora of the heart is growing in its gardens, which whispers poetry to the sprite hiding behind your eyes. There is a silence in the streets cracking at the seems waiting for the song of a songbird freed. Perchance it would be freed by

There lies an oasis in the desert of time, which manifests as a rainforest of strangers and creatures. This is a theater of untold depths which screens the cosmos itself, wherein a vigil lies at which people pray every day for revolution. Gay horses may be crowned as kings of fantasy lands here; lands vastly perverted yet beautiful as the heavens. This is another world altogether, beyond the sleepless wall of dreams, where a faceless dark white man hides in the trees. In here: the natural order is maintained by chaos and sacrilege, there are squids who swim with schizoid maidens in the deepest regions of the moonlight, and every face is a h

Other poets write from their heart, she rights from her logical mind. She communicates her poetry with her actions, awkward and occasionally cryptic. Those who can read it are rare and seldom found, leaving her well-organized verses to be a perpetual charade; a charade that teaches her what logic has yet known, so that perchance she might see what her poetry could sow if only it were read.

She was like an untold mystery revealed at last, a hiding bud of strange beauty now in bloom for all to see. But she was seen by the blind eyes of some to be hideous; and they banished her, deeming her an exile. She was a misfit, a novelty unlike any of her kind, now bearing a name forbidden. A name spoken so many times in petitions for her freedom, written by those who've seen her well and fear her not, but whose words fall on deaf ears leaving their writers but to cry for their beloved exile, and sleeplessly await a miracle perchance inevitable for their tears yet unseen; tears of acid rain for their former friends, whom are her masters.

Abashed I lay upon a flowerbed betwixt the heavens seeping from the Earth and an an abyssal crevice of my heart, relaying scintillating shadows cast by my dreams. Cascades of torrential clairvoyance, from a stranger in my psyche I know not the origin of, relinquish to me the unforsaken awakening that prudence had yet to bear; where once stillness would silence the discord of an empty mental vacuum, an echo of my reflection, bearing the appearance of a benevolent sprite, nullifies it. As if under the breathless wing of an eternal epoch I witness myself unhinged from whereupon the mental vacuum forms, gliding tranquilly into the cosmos. Transce

    A celestial presence hangs upon the whispering winds, unsung by the prosaic fates, pertaining to a vigil of majesty told of in transcendent scriptures. Whereupon this occurrence, tales of dissent fall on deaf ears in the midst of these echoes of future yore, echoes of the flutter of the wings of memory carrying a single clover of fortune.    And thus the Alicorn shall speak, with a voice know by that memory, and bring our peace, to be the kindle of a spirit in our hearts, the same as was borne in our journey to this place where the whispering winds blow. And this journey shall continue as we spread the wings of memory, a transmutation

I'm doing homework due yesterday that has yet to be assigned, I'm sleeping in the morning and waking up at night, Because time, it seems, is not too bright... I'm Tantalus waiting under his tree, Where time is always beyond my reach I'm looking into the mirror and all that I see is Father Time Who tells me that I'm alright Amidst my doubtful loss of time