mi·nus·cule

You’re sitting at the table, again. On the left turn you’ve got familiarity. On the right we find a face you’ve seen one too many times. Alone, and unafraid to pick you apart. Along with a timid bass line, and a smile to turn all the pag=s. This face stares down into the blue water, deep down [where] into the primordial ooze that moves you. Energies unknown to the enemies that run the woe. You are used, you are innocent in the matter. This is hell. Despite all the amusement flowing about, you are bruised by the potential you once felt.

The world knows the answers [no]and yet it holds back the power. It holds the stick as you move closer to the dog, closer to the angry mob that stood by. They stood still, and why? Drums, cold wheezing, violins playing in your mind as the tide comes in///

Take two and the scene is won. Prematurity in the minds of the enlightened. Promiscuity found in the souls of the frightened. We move about aimlessly, they move about wastefully. So do you. Questions? Answers that rarely fit. Scalding rain -insert failure- All you feel when the world comes tumbling down. Your love in the arms of a stranger. Strange to you in our world. A strain on you as the syllables curl. What else is there.

There are words here somewhere, running about. But none of them fit, do they? Immature lyrics to round out the pitiful droning. The music, the moaning. Replacements don’t work in a world full of failures. Not this time though, not while i have breath. There are places one could go. [where] Do you know? Where, and how. We could find trees and all those ugly things. With dangerous synth and a trembling of happiness. Those places exist, somewhere in the upside down -culture- She’s been there you know, far down in the forest dark. His sweet words matter not when worlds collide in dull cosmic affliction/

This makes little sense to the unwilling. To the unfettered, unliving. And why would it. They are but the musings of a madman, in a world of sheep. Similar to kindness, and the music of the sandman, as it mourns us while we sleep. Subtle drops in the melody affect us, endorphin espionage if you will. [not] They whisper meanings to me and you. We fly without this cure, we were meant to. There is no fear in this god, no heaven either. There is only this here and now. Music has seen to it, music has been through it. All the horrors of the world, all the hollows, unfurled. Beauty remains, as we die of sickness and health -insert metaphor-

/chaos/

Leave it to chance and you are left with emptiness. Leave it to the professionals and you will be scarred with sickness, and wealth. Take the matters of the march into your own fragile hands and you’ll be left with nothing -wrong- you’ll be left with everything. Like white off your coffee cup, the regimes will fall. The earth will spin, with or without you, much to its chagrin. Oblivious to the ruin on the surface, the cosmos creep on through our screams, without drive. Without interruption. And the ash will fall, whether we are dreaming, or alive.

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