I sit in the den of lions and minx, alike. The air of stanzas may be sung with A jubilatory zeal, the likes of which The Gods themselves would be envious. For no place is more molten that the Estranged crevices within The freezing grasp that is The malevolent guile Of neglect and oblivion. The sublime smelting of flame and sound Cascading down upon the opaque lens That is the frost upon the Lakes haggard mouth. For tis it neer encumbered by the truth Of its own contradictory existence which is: Unity... And Balance... A ubiquitous mirage of light and sound Which slowly succumbs to its own fallacy; The likes of which exist solely to depict this oxymoronic anomaly in time... With space and thought... The sheer product of finite mortal mind, being the only counter balance/what-if To that which mortal modes refer to as: VARIABILITY!
Posted on: Sun, 16 Mar 2014 05:56:57 +0000
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