How skewed the darkened glass, degraded the silicon, polluted with bubbles of ignoble gaseous trouble, base metals and poor nanotech alchymy, the dark lens through which we perceive not only others, but even ourselves ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ there is no devil other than the one we conjure (much against appearances, granted), though I knew a special one, who met the leather-clad, leery fella ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ a hanging brass censer, in a wild and lawless corner of a large and unsanctified land, burns an incense so fine and so rare, a supplication and prayer rising gently, noted only by the ether and forest brethren, to the god of lost children, the last incense of its kind anywhere on earth, burning down to ash, this very day ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and I am the youthful blush of innocence on the besotted childs cheek, a lover without her Romeo, a father excommunicated from arid lands, a grand and be-ribboned emperor sans throne, far from all roads leading to Rome or any versions of home, a philanthropist, lacking portfolio ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ unable to travel as so frequently desired, ever back through time, re-set the clocks, provide the counsel to those who lonely, weep, misstep, to hell take their final leaps, unable to see themselves plainly in a newer, clearer truth, as the children of ours, long preceding our grief
Posted on: Sun, 11 May 2014 10:04:00 +0000
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