Within the White Noise

Have you ever pondered shadows are made of softness, they are not hard surfaced like those of us existing outside of the white noise unable to grasp - the invisible, that speak meaning to us, whispering their sagacious platitudes, we see them briefly, then, they disappear into the cracks in the walls of us, we are blind - to the shadows that stand and walk beside us, they make us jump, so we avoid looking too closely, at those penumbras we shut our windows, we roll down the venetians, those masks we wear daily - no one is an open book, we are the bookmarks, in our own recycling stories, dog-eared each chapter - returning occasionally to understand what long sentences mean in the shorter less than poetic moments of our purpose intelligence scattered - running from the hell hounds those shadows we never successfully collar and lead, they find us eventually and lick at our feet, praying for us to take them in, to love them, to tame them, but they are wild things, living, all in their own dimensions; the shadows that walk beside us, the ones we hardly ever notice, feed those baying Baskervilles light to satiate, and to calm them, we try to love them, those hell hounds - eventually they possess us, for a while, their hunger strays to other things we ride the wild like we are them, they eventually turn on us and take us by the throat, then, we, unable to speak, resort to writing poetry they rip our hearts out greedily, the blood leaves a trail - and we look, for the shadows again, to bring us light, still, something of the hounds remain you can see it in the eyes, something wild romping in the mind, pulsing bright light like a neon sign advising, "avoid at all costs, The Uncontained" avoiding at all costs, for it is far far too expensive to entertain the loss of time in such darkness, the ripening fear in others steers them mercilessly, they turn their backs and walk away, from all that singular madness, "no! never that!", they think, that is never them; that one, singing beautiful unlearn’ed tunes to mirrors in the darkness, dances with ghosts who remember the brush strokes of a life, listening to other channels - who gift strange meaning embedded automatically between the magik refrains of music of the forgotten the phantom heartbeat - that one is with the Baskervilles running wild and free barking with shadows loving the luscious life licking the uncontained within Candide Diderot. ‘24