Mysteries of the liminal
Histories of the sublime
Staged onto that place beyond reason,
masked as the phantom of time.
That spaceless space where nothing’s a race.
Haunted by wonder, we go undercover…
in protection of all that’s been
and all we’ll ever be.
Carved between rocks at the sand face,
birthed by the sea.
Slipped by the slippery and slippered into what’s above. Directional fallacy, the address of a dove.
Allowing — surpassing — any need to second think.
Embracing, shit-facing a taste of the meek.
Cacophonous chaos, a dial to deprive
One of their aloneness in a land so alive.
Heralding in a new future,
splashing the past
with Truth-dust unspoken
and surely unabashed.
Wandering mazes of you more than me.
The answer to the puzzle is to set each other free.
Tempting me further in on this battle with fate.
Slipping the lace up my thigh,
on this reality-smearing date.
If I hold my ground now,
I’ll be able to breathe.
Wait, stop efforting,
there’s no need to conceive.
Overpopulation of ideas and righteousness abounds.
Letting go of where we were and basking in the sounds. Indomitability ahead, the land of the dead.
More living than most, we make a toast.
Water through sand,
time slips through our hands.
Not playing by the rules,
breaking free of the schools.
Of thought and children,
from every time and place.
This story unoriginal,
the birth of the human race.
What’s right when everything else’s gone to shit?
Who will heal our optimism wound?
Who will be here for the next big boom?
Of production, innovation, and science fiction galore.
We author the tale;
fate lies down on our floor.