The re-exploded gutturals, resolute
and resonate, resounding
re-splendid and resplendent, splayed,
echoing through the centuries
just like the voices of idolized idiots,
not void eschewing, but careening
off the walls of the soul,
and finding there the Truest of Echo-chambers.
Can inner-thought be just as profound and solid
as its corporeal cousin, the Diamond?
Falling Through Midnight
Stuck in an accurate
state of Pouring,
I finally notice the broken twigs and
this could be some type of Anti-Nirvana,
truthless and shallow as ever.
Fire cannot put out a fire
and somehow a random leaf
falls onto the ground which just happens
to be the lucky spot when it comes to Proximity
as it is miraculously unlicked by the flames.
At least no aftermath for now—
a cuckoo bird does not know it is a cuckoo bird.
There are uncontrollable
certainties in life
and this just happens to be one of them—
fortunately, the masses are distracted by gadgetry
and garments and endless arguments
and just carry on, unconcerned by the severity of it all.
You are always glazing us with your thoughts.
How kind of you. Though, I’d rather you stop
your mutated mumblings rife with insanity
and instead, speak Truth unto my ears.
It’s my favorite song to hear the tonsils sprout.