Circling bats

January 13th, 2019

Pitiful dying complexity. Tears never come — there is no room for them. Too many years, too young, too old and dying to ever grasp the cold light of infinity — but never enough to lose hope completely, still lit inside by a force outside reason. Beyond beyond beyond cry darkness and silence forever and ever amen. Hail to the proud and imperturbable silence and light the night with our cries of frailty. Tomorrow never comes and yesterday never was as we are now. Come back, come back, all the things that I once held on to and all the things I wanted to grasp, if they are not one and the same. Melt into me, gods and goddesses, fill me and fill my soul like I never could. Scream with me futilely into nothingness and may the noise be music. Sing and dance with tambourine and harp, with drum and guitar, with all the calamity and dreadful pauses of pitied agony, live and die in me for I have nothing else. My heart has lived too cold — too inflamed — too small and too far-reaching. Melt into me. Melt into me. An infinite nothing may be nothing indeed, but I feel something, and that is enough to begin with, even if it is all I ever have.
Drink the placebo-world down with a cooling feel — a feeling of nothing.
I reek of smoke — I am smoke, burnt ashes from a fire that formed the world. There are circling bats.