Free of Form

To leap free of form off the precipice,
Not to fall or fly but float o’er a forlorn
World that seems at night to be weeping, while
Here between star and sand, on the threshold
Between serenity and insanity, between
Silence and sound is only the perimeter,
The borderland in which no eternal salvation
Will trespass, where the wasteful cacophony
Of a new dawn is coterminate with the
Glacial silence of an ashen dusk.

A monochrome world of senseless division,
The gaps as seen from ensensed minds
Like canyons blossoming in the rain that
Cut them open, gave them form, and
All across their walls adorn
Such fleeting faults as eyes can know,
The transitive mind will writhe and
Agonize against creation which
Amneses its purpose, to destroy
Naught but nothingness.

How many can say they are ready to
Loose the cords of this physical
Force which keeps our steps ever
In motion around an endless circle
Of predetermined destination,
This force that would see a world
To never fly or float or fall
Down, immortal wings that will never
Kiss the august sun or dance amongst
The briny foam of the sea.

Freed from silence are the ears
Which to the celestial frequencies are
Tuned, and only the incessant and
Discordant voices of migrants lost in
A world they are too much with can
Serve to muddy the clear and vibrant
Tonality of the euphonious melody
In every speck rain trying to cleanse
The film from our eyes, every thunderous
Blast rattling against muted ears.

Here, where star and sand meld in
A twinkling fire cross the hollow but
Deathless dunes, so full of the
Once vibrant and vivacious particulates
Which burst from the fount of Gaia
And in sublime foolishness saw the
Dunes, not as an extension but a source
Of subordination, yet as our
Chains we thrust upon the world,
The more with earthly oblivion to be.

I worship naught but the void between
Our favorite lies and truth unseen,
Where to fit but in a place of
Absence, where else to feel more
At home than where there are no
Kindred eyes, for surely the world needs not
One more tepid and fearful voice to
Join in the silent choir, yet a counter
Melody is received like some foreign
Battle hymn; such a fool am I!

Should shape and form have meaning more
Than white noise on a broken screen
That ceaseless commotion of signals lost
Seems more to me a portrait of
The ordered chaos which so enamors
The broken minds or broken screens
Which perceive in life an unwritten path
Towards the pot of gold which myths
Promised to Man, MAN! who is naught
But a rat in a maze, an eternal experiment.

What do we seek? Is it never to leave
Or to seek at all times a moments reprieve
From the weariness worn by every
Face that has known but a glimpse
Of the calm and tranquil fraud of
Ignorance, to slip back behind the
Veil of thoughtless contemplation with a
Prescribed purpose; and so it is that
We seek not to transcend out of
Something, but rather descend into nothing.

As a rose is scorned from an unwanted lover,
Cut off from life and purpose
Now lost, thrown aside as an unwelcome
Reminder of dead dreams, who once
Held the promise of lustful hope,
Now is trod by boots as unworthy
To touch such beauty as nature
Wrought, that could have known so many
Suns, but now has been reduced to
Dust, that most human of elements.

Dust, how deep I wish to bathe
Where so many lives have paid their
Dues, to feel a thousand years of
Knowledge, of sunrise and sunsets
Seen over the sapphire seas, of
Hatred and love, to be washed away
With no more thought than is given
To the silent mouths, which for want
Of the body and blood, occupy the
Dark recesses of the periphery.

There do I find myself; with steps
So measured as must be unconscious,
I have wandered into the echoes
Of spaces, once possessed by the insane
Longings of fleeting memories,
Now naught but the voids that
Shape our minds, though unseen and
Unfelt, yet present in their
Absence, where are located the lost
Hopes of the unknown.

No true hatred may arise but that
Which from deepest devotion springs,
When needed no more and cast aside
As children forget their old playthings;
A chilling shade drops o’er the Fields
Of Asphodel, or life, as it were,
For when naught in one’s waning hours can
Bring to excitement, or arouse but a
Shade of the wonderment of years past,
Then is life become as purgatory as old.

Those crystals on which men cast their dreams
Are but a bandage for the heart,
Unfit to assuage the damnation following
Those who see in shadows their fear,
Never faced for free of tears do
Men desire themselves to be,
To float in dishonest harmony,
Gently rocked by the water
Rippling from the disparate, muted
Voices of those drowning underneath.

To fly free of form, when all we’ve
Known is bondage to a transient container,
Unfit to house the lowest kinds this
Species has ever seen, yet
With devoted denial our physical world
We toil our lives in service unconscious
For fear of ending as we came,
Yet nothing is ever to remain,
So it must be, that for myself I choose
Not life or death but the void between.

Don't Be Silent

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