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| Inward awareness and eternal life. |
Thought and memory. Creatures in heaven and in the sky, to move unabated.
Impervious to all who touch and deem spatial frontiers, accessible. To decaying hands and earthen brains.
Creatures in and on the earth. Living and moving in their own kind of Aether. Within their predestined mind set, immaculate and pristine soul. Archetypes which are divine agencies unharmed by scientific vanity cast shadows on the reflective mud. Shimmering.
Creatures underneath. Held at bay at arm's length. Preventing the telluric sulfurs from hurting the breathing beasts, thoroughly and lavishiously peopling the earth's belly with diverse life forms of an inherent mysterious beauty.
And at times Hell's host will shed ugliness on the lot of it all! Pretending to claim some sort of supremacy on it. Making ugliness the golden standard, and then, to be perversely proud of it: a kind of inverted unsacral meme!
Ripples on the quiet in our profound unbending unheard of darkness. A bright unfathomable energy. Giving no explanation of itself. Nothing to be said then squandered!
Written in ciphers on some torn shredded parchment. To be stolen then lost, then sold.
** * ** **
The light doesn't bend. But goes straight into the infinite. Never-ending in a briefness.
Where then, is what is relative? Who told these lies from the start? In what injured clime did a preposterous scoundrel with a white lab coat make believe with mathematical gibberish in lost space? Nothing to be really quantified?
Integral integers delineating.
Islands floating indefinitely going no where. Until hitting some unexplainable, unawaited wall. Abashed and humiliated. Foiled in a terrific conceptual ineptie. Surprised within a Great Lie. For fairy idiots. Bowing to some desert alien mongrel having big vicious teeth.
The Babylonian myth monger. Parading in a desolate wasteland, where only black blood can rise. To filthy the earth, what's above in the air where sprites wander, as well those organic things that move on the lonely world's surface.
** * ** **
Hugin says in disgust how undelightfully feverish he feels. Misinterpreted as he is. By fake seers and new age priestesses.
Munin only regrets on wetting Odin's chest, with relentless tears.
Waiting for that special time, when barren earth shall give rise to purple irises and two-toned daffodils on the sea front where we'll harvest salt for the future banquet of good tidings.
Here on this stationary flat globe, befuddled by marvelous stars. Yearning for today.
