Dial Tone

I can't seem to hear the dial on this broken telephone, staring back at the brick walls in this greco home, The tone becomes ominous the further i progress, the depths of a broken soul from all those experiences before, another memory comes back to haunt me; poof.. the rest is history... Borrowing ideas from the time keeper, the noble teacher. Believe in nothing you see, since all of it is littered with evil, and these directions for the roads paved with good intentions are always littered with pollution, extensions of the most infectious. Those who've flirted with indiscretions, at the folly of their transgressions, and these are the matters of the heart, where the mind looses its self to the art. When the moon is full at the start, just to curve into darkness at the peak of its ark as each grain of sand in the hour glass, slowly collapses to the bottom filling the cracks, clocking the time that it takes each one of us to build up our masks. These moments, they are time lapses, emotional relapses, lessons of attachments flirting with the passive nature of all the battles. These hourglasses, who knew they could be so disastrous, quietly firing of all these mental images of cannons; burning down the hiding spot in your castle, these are just examples. so run to the mountains, or row through those channels, take those chances, whatever happens, know it eventually does not matter, we all become ashes; though for now, we are all our own captains. These matters of the heart, grow more fond the further you go. One second your in heaven, the next your in shambles, tangled in madness sadness for the things that might be, eventually driving you back into that burned down castle. Back to taking the same chances, not everything that trickles rattles. Confusing passion with malice, forgetting we're all atoms on a much larger canvas. This sound is deafening, I picked up to begin dialing, but was reminded then the adrenaline of this gentlemen is much more effective when using a pen. conveying the lessons to the future Kevyn. So for now i stare at this florescent hue, writing to find out what to do? Wanderlust in a garden of mistrust, or trust in the human process? Hold a grudge, or wait for the flood of blood to just halt to a stop? This glass house was built around too many rocks, but can be broken down with just a cough. What a paradox.