The proboscis of wisdom sucks upon a succulent decomposition of potential,
whilst a narcissistic array of grim facades ejaculates in sheer hedonism,
as the failure to even fail exponentially subtracts the negativity of infinite hopelessness
from the alliance of hereditary perception and monumental insignificance.
And yet, the wisdom of the one, coupled with the wisdom of the norm,
traps the divinity of doubt into a vicious cycle of falsified justification.
The mind, the introvert perception of the cosmogony that is, splits and multiplies,
keeping track of the righteous path by spreading bread crumbs and body parts,
choosing to be oblivious to the crows festering the periphery of the journey,
and shifting through mitotic emancipation into tiny freedoms.
No, this is not the story of an end, the story of THE end.
The archetypal rawness of the blank slate self is still a living breather,
enslaved in a nebula of disembodied, given, blueprints,
futilely grasps for air and waits for the one to become the ONE,
and materialise back into the nothingness that is everything and all that is beyond that.
No, this is the story of the beginning of festive times...
of voiceless recitations and fragrant abysses,
of nights harvesting back all the words we exiled- a whole lot of them,
learning how to hope again and determining how long tomorrow is..
errare humanum est...Paralogy, of such a magnitude that you have to believe ...
in the end, the realisation is but obvious in its self-negation... there’s no end...there’s no story...