You bruised your Ba,
consequent to denting your alembic,
now your hugr's running frenic.
This is not a reason to panic.
When the gate to Shangri La,
has clearly been set ajar,
and the only star you know,
is your own.
Follow it.
The space has been erased.
My oldest face replaced,
by a tatterdemalion gathered,
from the scatterings of the wasteland.
Who is here anymore to keep the count for?
What are years when days are unnumbered?
What is left then the seeds were set on shelves and spoilt?
Till what? Till when? Well?
Doth it chime for me?
Or thee?
Prithee telleth?
Keep the light burning, son.
Bridges left as powdered ash,
the boats are same-wise gone.
We alone can bear the torch,
and carry pyros back to source.
Alit, alive the anima mundi,
it sings out, a sonorous call.
A shuddering roar that echoes, from lowest hellborne root,
to highest sacred bough.
Do you see the Gap?
That space in time when rimed poison congealed a king from suffering.
When from salt, by heat, and simple need, the Wanderer was freed.
He who loosed his own kin,
then shattered the frozen lord.
From whose shards a world was born.
Do you know it now?
As the Master once said:
"Skill issue."
Which by that, he speaks of possibility of becoming skilled.
For where skill is lacking, there is space to fill.
That is why I am there, how else would you clear a Bardo, if you don't go in?
Spun by gossamer hands,
the strands of me are fine.
Line thin, like 90s modelling,
rotation untenable; tottering.
Still I stand, taut, and taught well,
lessons handed out that Mimir held.
Another day in the night's dark.
A small spark, sustained in the starkest wind, burns.
Embers unbedded, stoked by chance, or set to new life by breath and hands.
A fire born.
Too hot to last forever, but sure to leave a mark.
Do you know the song that sings itself?
The whistling hum on angel's lips, the cackle of the raven tongue, the hymnal of the witch's mass?
The bell in hand that only rings when shelved?
Do you?
Have you heard that wandering tone?
Or is it caught in these wracked lobes alone?
The taste is sweet, but then the scent clings like defeat, and never again these factors meet.
To be truly combinatory, that is a topic of a longer story, fit best for winter's darkest hoary night.
It ends better surely, right?
Thank you for remembering.
May I mother, can I, ever know another?
By what clever lever may they be uncovered?
I need the breathing room, lest I be smothered, but in leaving the sphere I end up utterly othered.
So instead I stay, though cornered, huddling as I mutter.
Smiling Gods with heavy hands and shining hearts. They know what we do, they know what they are. Glory or grace? Mercy, surely.
The heralding call of the returns returning.
There is a wicked streak in me, a razored thing, surgical in it's cruelty. With a quicksilver snap I can sever a tie, leaving nothing but the ghosts of shadows. Painless, numbing, deathly utter endings. If only I could keep it sheathed, or let it rust.
Spinning wheels overrun struggling devas, asuras weeping in pious rage. The smoke engulfs them all.
The sea of milk has curdled, and no one knows how to make cheese.
Weighted waiting.
Wading into the river's edge.
Weary from trucking through heather and hedge.
I will not tow the sledge.
We have finished here, awaiting wages.
Gods, you make these days as ages.
But I trust in thou to set the stages.
Shadowed corners call for light.
The night bred fear the moon.
Thoth baboon, tamer of Ra's Wrath,
spare me now a bloody path.
Let me walk these darkling roads,
unmolested though adorned.
Leave me not among the scorned.
Praise be to the Author, whose pen scribed our stories. Hail to the Singer, who keened out our spirits. Blessings upon the Builder, that gave these bones their shape. Much love to the Wanderer, who waits for us all, beyond the next bend.
Audible stream unceasing, rocking twitching mumbling. It doesn't stop, does it? Someone never off, never still, no quiet reverie. How feverish an existing, how hurried and draining.
Is it to remind himself he still is, that his burdens still are? Or just a need deep seated, automatic? I don't know.
Lashing tongues on electric lines.
Spines screwed tight, like jam jars.
Minds gone rotten, hallowed rinds.
Misbegotten bastard, made of scars.
Sitting on phantasms, beds of stars.
Graceless hunter, following hinds.
Tasteless voyeur, the viewing binds
Would you ride to Hel for Beauty?
To sit at Hunger's table and beg for grace,
to free a brother from dark cold chains?
Will you weep for Baldr? Would you take his place? For the sake of Light reborn, would you scorn your place in the world?
Spit upon the Serpent-Father,and all his works.
Noise.
Furious, querolus and impotent.
Flailing fingers flaying themselves bare in a show of self flagellation for fanged piety. Feigned sainthood of the anxious pseud.
Pathos of the pathetic and rude.
That's not a cynic, that's a sophist.
One must encompass as many shapes as possible, if you wish to move from sphere to sphere without disrupting their fields.
I only cheer the death of glorious enemies. I don't celebrate the ending of cowards. They have earned only disregard, and ignominy.
May his name be forgotten.
Indeed. Together we will spice the world!
No. You will see the humans as they are.
I miss him, and I hope he is well. But,I doubt he's even still alive, he was in his early 80s last time I saw him, and that was five years ago.
Facts. I will use the power of my colonizing ancestors to gather the spices back unto the cultural fold. Watch out India, the English are coming, again... But politely this time 😆
I'm pretty sure his wife is the one who picked the manager, and she's not a kind person, to put it plainly. His wealth isn't truly his own, and probably never will be.