My eyes hurt. In it, I see destruction, and it begins with you.
Each time I lower my eyelids, that is what I see — eyes being drowned, in ice and turbulent seas, theirs’ dried in the oceans of tears, staring, empty, dead. You don’t comprehend this trivialness and urgency you say, because you’ve conveniently cast yourself aside … you’ve promised yourself tidings, yet you honour not your words, and then you laugh at me and say I’m insane.
There is such a typology as harmony, and on the octaves of life, the scales consonate thereon the rainbows between here, and there; between the in-betweens and the in-betwixt; between the alpha and the omega.
You call me a heretic, a mad person but that’s what a reticent person is like .., almost
A person who lacks social skills accordingly your obiter dictum, and because of your cecities you refuse my pleas for assistance to heal the worlds, only because you do not comprehend that which is within, and that which is without yet you say I’m astray as the unlettered. You contemptuously accuse me of insidious pleasures yet you embrace more breaths than I do of the inconstant, unfaithful universe.
To you I am nothing but a misbegotten mess, living in the minds of the unwary ever-ready to mastermind a coup de levorotation of the heart, and set things right … pun unintended. A mess lacking in skills, who barely utter two words simply can’t conserve the world but she did you, when you were in need of comfort, of a friend, of energies, and when you need to exchange the ails of your conjugation in a blink of an eye .., although my presence is more than just that.
Presence, like love is constant. It is the defined black energy that ‘whole’ things in unison, the mirror giving nights a billion sparkles.
Will you one day, perhaps wake up when it’ll be a tad too late for your oes — those extensions of your breaths as you never did believed in the present, nor did you embraced the past. In your possibleness, I am but the dust beneath your feet, left after the winds of radiations engulfing the whole just before the oceans turn into fire, and the anguish of births in the moments, now as you exhale.
28°, what if you see of the apparent is within of your worlds, and what I witness is sacrosanct, and complete ?
Feature Image, Courtesy and Copyright, Ekaterina Vasyagina
Image Courtesy and Copyright, Sergey Shulga