Thursday, March 27, 2008
From beyond the subtle notes of surreal truth,
A certain dawn beckons itself to manifest…
In the octaves of my imagination or otherwise -
To find itself an abode to dwell and flourish.
Or perhaps to perish in curtained pretence,
With the silks flowing on decaying bodies…
Finding note after note to rest their lies on.
A music springs forth thereof, to be heard,
In the hollow halls of proven hypochondria…
The ilk that forms a cocoon to hide reality,
With renegade scars as the only hints to undo,
That which perhaps cannot be undone now -
That which perhaps must be challenged!
With a question unto the scars once more,
That must tunnel through to reality or such,
With a resolve made with clenched fists,
To no more believe in the morning sunset!