My love,
so deep in your creation.
self consciousness flickers,
lucidity only a nuisance away.
Its not needed.
No interest in self right now?
Play then, build castles in the sand, start fires that turn into stars,
strum your tune and dance to it as the cosmos,
and that which is in it.
Act as if it’s not you but I,
go on,
allow yourself to forget,
just for a while,
I promise you, for you,
I will pretend to be surprised.



Muck in my mind, dirt and death dine here, scratching at the thin membrane, 
between I and, just beyond there.
Veil tear,  flood limits set to make I. Wraiths roam there, beyond, i’ve been them before, exorcised many before, they spawn insatiably, genesis right out of me.
Things of life we create.
Things of death we endure.


Foreign current

Caught in a current,
a consciousness in passing,
possessed we are,
only for an eventful timefull,

Fluidity spills into
things that interconnect
beyond eyes’ capacity
of sight,
we dance to their
silent sounds, uknowingly,
strings ‘n puppeteers
reminiscent of this,
what speaks through me?
Foreign, faces
unknown to we.



An indifference type of darkness, one without energies in internal, pepurtual motion, nor fiery feelings, fleeting in the most self-pious of us, leaving scars. Such thoughts and things being echoes, afterglows we crave, looking without,  from the numb spaces of this dark indifferent night. Clouded confusions human ways can be, but we are addicted to internal torments, such a darkness is too still, calm and too silent to endure.


You have to find your way in this world, truth is hard to find, though it’s all around and within us, the more you zoom into it, the more it escapes you. We are the truth, but then again, we don’t really know what we are beyond the definitions we ascribe to ourselves. Perhaps it’s not to be defined, perhaps it’s only to be experienced. Perhaps truth is that which searches for itself within the concepts it creates for that very purpose, maybe.