We are all Nameless
What else is there to do
but to tell you who I am,
but most of all,
what I wish to find.
I am not the cavalier of the sun,
but the caveat of phantasm.
I do not wish to live in the whispers of light,
nor to smuggle my aching mind in the vagrant rain.
I am nothing more than a plastered vibration
of miscalculated dream.
An ancient misery,
buffeted by the whims
of whatever fate or the long-winded sword of Tyrs
I am not a poet,
not even a wandering wind.
Just a rag of symbols;
a puzzle on an endless stretch
of corner-less ideas.
I am not sad
like I used to be.
Yet my eyes do not breathe
with sacred intimacy,
they do not smile like they used to.
I'm right where I belong, wandering and exhausted.
I play with my various definitives
and massacred spectrums.
I untangle the
used synopsis of
my fellow paradigms.
try to peal over the masks.
attempt the humble grazing for the necessity of skylight.
What I want is for it all to slow down.
What I want is to stop making it spin.
What I want is to acquiesce with the lords of atonement.
What I want is to spill my psalms to the mist of desire.
As you see me,
unmistakable and frail,
a tan light twirls over my body;
washing waves of gladden semblance
and forbidden musings.
In your eyes, I unlock the doors of my indifference.
But most of all,
in this timid dwelling, my sour bed,
in all honesty, a domicile that shadows
only a microcosm of my true possibilities,
I know as the world sweeps away the ashes of her former self, the world is essentially mine.
I always know the red button does exist.
It was my choice.
Was that my excuse?
Is it my choice?
Was that my weakness?
Inside of a choice,
was there a command?
I talk to myself
as the world folds
its arms behind me.
With every breath,
a new light opens,
with every stone,
she closes her auburn, savage eyes
and remorses for the lost sound of the evening waves.
I talk to myself
because God carries too many faces.
A face with no eyes,
A wordless companion,
A dream constantly dreaming;
making a new face;
patching together old shadows.
Why do I grow so tired?
Why, when I let go of my open windows
am I alone?
Why do I forget to make the question?
Why do questions mark?
Actually, what do questions mark?
What do they expose?
What do they leave stranded?
Where do they leave me,
but in their territory.
Phonetically this is just a symbol.
A line streamed over feathered stone.
It has no destiny or consequence,
but it creates one.
It begs to be known.
Like the arbitrary wind to the loathing night,
the page begs to be turned.
A new pattern to be read,
Whether we give an evening space to breathe
leaves no real speculation.
It does not change the fact
that the dreams of our past
and the misguided avenues of our future
serve as a bathsodic form
of time travel.
A word too broad in its meaning.
(Whether it determines its measurement is pointless)
We are always here.
You are always gone.
I am dying,
no matter what the schematics of man
or the mausoleum of dogmatic regalia expatiate,
I know the night is disappearing.
there is so much missing.