140208A
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Cryptic silence,
everything reeking of death,
disincarnate entities
stalking the nearly alive
carbon smudges moving
as smeared as fingerprints
on the torn cosmic fabric,
leaving their futile traces
on the immensity of eternity.
We have become
the destroyer of worlds,
a failing echo in history,
the flag on a mound of decay,
broken down to autonomic spasms
of terrified muscle and nerve,
the dust and ashes covering up
an archeology of trinkets,
the scattered bones,
each designating failed trades
that attempted to exchange
something for an end
to no other, other than loss.
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140208B
-------------
Going through
the social remnants,
is very much the same
as various forms
of suicide.
Whomever they were
they left you something
that was unexpected,
but always nothing to replace
what they took away.
You cannot bring them down,
so you bring yourself down,
taking careful aim,
and blowing it away
as something no longer wanted.
There are more forms of poison
than there are antidotes,
but you want to make it interesting
before you go
ru****ng out the exit.
When you find you cannot
break free,
to anything you really desire,
you find that you have to
break away anyway.
Knowing you will be condemned
for that too,
tortured between silence and sound,
where everything is dissonant
to anything you really want to experience.
Infinite details,
leave nothing to say,
nothing said being the only resistance
a resistance trying to break down the lines,
of broken and forced communication.
You have to resist,
even if that is as futile
as any other pursuit,
knowing the only knots you get to tie
strangle your own thoughts.
The struggle to know,
and the struggle to be,
is perished into brokenness,
given up to violent distortions
of anything becoming real.
You scream,
and you scream,
no sound coming out,
and no one hears you screaming,
you scream your resistance.
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