we are always here. among the spectres of Gehenna. burning with desires. we acquire from the night. we would have danced ourselves to death (poor vision)- we wanted to be mundane. but empathy is better left unsaid. and sympathy is for the poor.
so relics of the pitiless are strewn about a tearing heart. so that they might steal the sweet light that turns it all to ice.
like an animal that has died or almost died or other names that are given it - in shapes of light they go away - disintegrated around the edges, broken down houses, abandoned warehouses and so many other things.
so many years brought them to this. so many corners they turned into a circle, returned here, to the very place they stand. resigned to a line.
this is the heart. a plaza full of flowers. overgrowing the bones of this poem and its smokey black lens. that we were caught inside a noose of light brought by a philosopher on his way out of a cave. and now we're caught.
like light in a prism. cut up and multiplied. advancing as one.
No comments:
Post a Comment