Availed in the states of perpetual dread, a light omen asks to lessen the burden of a few. The angry metaphor, a modest spirit of death; give it round before you utter its name.
“To the provider of all wondrous things that I have deemed thus ever essential - my dream will become the plan for the ever.”
What you pray to is given power under the ghost of the malevolent sun.
For all your sins of hardly knowing better, the laugh that unhinges the weight of your soul; the funniest thing you’ll ever bless is the parody of filth beneath the stone.
A dream carried me through the streets I could piece together from the many rides taken about the mid-city. Homes, too large for any conscious necessity, planted with gates too far from the door. Life exists as a spectacle, nearly, but from the person on the street it looks like hell. If there exists any presence among it, I imagine the perspective would peel its shell.
Frankly, what the fuck am I?
My ties to that city are always appearing wholesome but the moment the fact of it comes up I realize that I am always alone. A word flies carelessly and it sits between the rest of all the painfully conscious ideas - I address it and see a problem that I cannot undo. I never got to answer the question of what they would do if I found myself on the floor. The only one that ever answered that was someone I can’t talk to anymore. She said…she didn’t care, and that she’d be with me always.
I really put that to the test, and it certainly wasn’t that shame that made a change come about. Letting the ache pass, it’s clear how fragile everything really is; and all the states of consciousness detail the struggles I have never known.
“Walk with me, to the garden of Eden. There is no eternal life here, save for what has always been in perpetuity. The persistence you crave is…a malady, a terrifying affliction reserved for those who simply exist, without. Sit here, and behold…everything you will never have.
You can be a part of this, you can be here for the ever. Simply toil without end until this higher power, a boon upon you, should bestow. You are weak, you could be strong - tend my garden under the sun.”
All I can hear and see is the flicker of a flame at the end of a wet rag and bottle. Both hands peeled back before the star ever-lasting:
I refuse to concede, though I have never won.