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"Cocoon" They say... a New World traces over the old, leaving the unaware, erased, far behind the old unaware, left far behind, crawls the walls in its web of lies spinning suspect strings of silk in the air glistening diamond nets slick and sticky with the sense of capturing a life drowning in teardrops that camouflage the trap it set, feeling little of nothing harbouring in its well tended lack of empathy, its tricks of confidence, walking the mucky sterile floors of Freedom shining a smile that hides a crime far beyond incarceration - another terrible premeditated theft, there they walk, that paragon, cruising, no less, with the cargo they’ve thieved from that which is remissed, they talk the talk and walk the walk, and they live and breathe, brokering shallow promises and stealing dreams of the sleeping Other's blueprints of a rich inner world, a beautiful life, the architecture within that which sleeps, quite complex; while The Cocooned sleep, exhausted, they find it succours them that pleasurable avoidance, it is an isolated habit, a symptom brought about by breathing in the constant untruths of dodgy Freedom salesmen The Cocooned, close their eyes returning to that safe dark far away removed place, it is warm and comfortable, and there The Cocooned find themselves at peace, and The Cocooned sleep and they sleep, closing out the noise of the denials of the paroledphiles and their cloistered devil's advocates; it would seem, for many seasons The Cocooned has contracted this sleeping disease, lost in the ghostly cathedrals and spooky vestal halls of poetry forging friendships with other phantom beings who partake in the art of seeking answers through the writing of witchery, casting their spells of grisled beauty, romance gone amuck the love for lost children, wars, their vengeful birthright, blue skies, daffodils, sunshine, holy ghosts, broken bread and wine, chalices of blood, the letdown of milk and hellelujah honey – far far away cocooned in the far removed place of Love and bitter endings they dream of new beginnings, they turn as they sleep, hibernating on the chance of victory in deep dreams to be achieved, erased, left far behind; They say a new world traces over the old leaving the old unaware erased, far behind yet in the highest corner of the room, there is a cocoon hidden, unthreatening, it’s been just hanging there for years and years, sometimes you can even imagine you can see it move inside the web of lies wrapped around the treasure at the core of the cocoon, witness the thing still beating loud and clear, Love is still fed constantly to that thing with the scarlet fat of Truth, it is blood coloured vermillion and pumping Pimpernel it feeds on the grit of strange hymns and poésie and unaware, it sleeps and it dreams, that it is glory bound, cocooned like a mummy in vast decades of spider webs, it waits and it waits and it waits, and waits the hidden blows by demons repeat the bludgeon in a bad dream, like insanity the dare of the thing inside inconceivably upstartful, continues to fan the miniscule embers of hope holding still a little light to firestart better larger things the patience of it is hard earned, and commendable, it is like a little death bit by bit, inconseqential, to observers the thing inside burns truth-full and it becomes exalted, well lit the observers are oblivious to the Light of real things, the smaller life of the better, that remains living inside the living shell of itself, like a soul - it carries those it meets in their dreams - it carries them along for the grand ride, they have a purpose, they have a role there its past is exchanged for better currency, the myths and legends embedded in dark woods the lost lovers of strange ghosts of former beings monked, all meet The Cocooned there, dressed in scrolls of hidden shining, gems like Re’ems of poetry, these odd elfen beings and spectrals walk The Cocooned to streams, where they are dunked and baptised forthwith – by overzealous do-gooding priests, they are then intolerably carried away on the backs of brookish books to become Calypso creatures swimming a Life in deep deep oceans - meanwhile, back to reality, buffeted in its cocoon by slights and the tawdry breezes of misfortune The Cocooned rolls over and creates ... a new world, for, it is still growing after all the heart of it pierces through the “T”hird eye, (capital T for Trouble), situated firmly open above a sharp mind and a recalcitrant spine of steel sticks and stones opens further the mind of the sleep cursed Cocooned, and like a scarab inside, the idle heart - to assuage its hunger - feeds the smaller bugs to its mind, nutritious little morsels, like the trust, to believe in birthing something unseen, something entirely new and gloriously revolutionary; the mind listens to the heart’s ideas, and for once...it doesn’t think - it remains still and cloistered, and like all things fed “Love”, the mind is now opening, it begins to feel the mind feels something new and exciting in higher realms warmed by a strange Light that penetrates The Cocooned from the heart inside out, and the sadness rises on the divine notes of dulcimer music and poetry what is fed Love, is never left behind with the old unaware erased, walking far away hand-in-hand with the dead far below; They say a new world traces over the old leaving the unaware, erased, far behind Candide Diderot. ‘24 Re’em. Kali. "Tarantula"/This Mortal Coil (Lyrics). "Kubla Khan"/Samuel Taylor Coleridge, excerpt.

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Cocoon

"Cocoon" They say... a New World traces over the old, leaving the unaware, erased, far behind the old unaware, left far behind, crawls the walls in its web of lies spinning suspect strings of silk in the air glistening diamond nets slick and sticky with the sense of capturing a life drowning in teardrops that camouflage the trap it set, feeling little of nothing harbouring in its well tended lack of empathy, its tricks of confidence, walking the mucky sterile floors of Freedom shining a smile that hides a crime far beyond incarceration - another terrible premeditated theft, there they walk, that paragon, cruising, no less, with the cargo they’ve thieved from that which is remissed, they talk the talk and walk the walk, and they live and breathe, brokering shallow promises and stealing dreams of the sleeping Other's blueprints of a rich inner world, a beautiful life, the architecture within that which sleeps, quite complex; while The Cocooned sleep, exhausted, they find it succours them that pleasurable avoidance, it is an isolated habit, a symptom brought about by breathing in the constant untruths of dodgy Freedom salesmen The Cocooned, close their eyes returning to that safe dark far away removed place, it is warm and comfortable, and there The Cocooned find themselves at peace, and The Cocooned sleep and they sleep, closing out the noise of the denials of the paroledphiles and their cloistered devil's advocates; it would seem, for many seasons The Cocooned has contracted this sleeping disease, lost in the ghostly cathedrals and spooky vestal halls of poetry forging friendships with other phantom beings who partake in the art of seeking answers through the writing of witchery, casting their spells of grisled beauty, romance gone amuck the love for lost children, wars, their vengeful birthright, blue skies, daffodils, sunshine, holy ghosts, broken bread and wine, chalices of blood, the letdown of milk and hellelujah honey – far far away cocooned in the far removed place of Love and bitter endings they dream of new beginnings, they turn as they sleep, hibernating on the chance of victory in deep dreams to be achieved, erased, left far behind; They say a new world traces over the old leaving the old unaware erased, far behind yet in the highest corner of the room, there is a cocoon hidden, unthreatening, it’s been just hanging there for years and years, sometimes you can even imagine you can see it move inside the web of lies wrapped around the treasure at the core of the cocoon, witness the thing still beating loud and clear, Love is still fed constantly to that thing with the scarlet fat of Truth, it is blood coloured vermillion and pumping Pimpernel it feeds on the grit of strange hymns and poésie and unaware, it sleeps and it dreams, that it is glory bound, cocooned like a mummy in vast decades of spider webs, it waits and it waits and it waits, and waits the hidden blows by demons repeat the bludgeon in a bad dream, like insanity the dare of the thing inside inconceivably upstartful, continues to fan the miniscule embers of hope holding still a little light to firestart better larger things the patience of it is hard earned, and commendable, it is like a little death bit by bit, inconseqential, to observers the thing inside burns truth-full and it becomes exalted, well lit the observers are oblivious to the Light of real things, the smaller life of the better, that remains living inside the living shell of itself, like a soul - it carries those it meets in their dreams - it carries them along for the grand ride, they have a purpose, they have a role there its past is exchanged for better currency, the myths and legends embedded in dark woods the lost lovers of strange ghosts of former beings monked, all meet The Cocooned there, dressed in scrolls of hidden shining, gems like Re’ems of poetry, these odd elfen beings and spectrals walk The Cocooned to streams, where they are dunked and baptised forthwith – by overzealous do-gooding priests, they are then intolerably carried away on the backs of brookish books to become Calypso creatures swimming a Life in deep deep oceans - meanwhile, back to reality, buffeted in its cocoon by slights and the tawdry breezes of misfortune The Cocooned rolls over and creates ... a new world, for, it is still growing after all the heart of it pierces through the “T”hird eye, (capital T for Trouble), situated firmly open above a sharp mind and a recalcitrant spine of steel sticks and stones opens further the mind of the sleep cursed Cocooned, and like a scarab inside, the idle heart - to assuage its hunger - feeds the smaller bugs to its mind, nutritious little morsels, like the trust, to believe in birthing something unseen, something entirely new and gloriously revolutionary; the mind listens to the heart’s ideas, and for once...it doesn’t think - it remains still and cloistered, and like all things fed “Love”, the mind is now opening, it begins to feel the mind feels something new and exciting in higher realms warmed by a strange Light that penetrates The Cocooned from the heart inside out, and the sadness rises on the divine notes of dulcimer music and poetry what is fed Love, is never left behind with the old unaware erased, walking far away hand-in-hand with the dead far below; They say a new world traces over the old leaving the unaware, erased, far behind Candide Diderot. ‘24 Re’em. Kali. "Tarantula"/This Mortal Coil (Lyrics). "Kubla Khan"/Samuel Taylor Coleridge, excerpt.