The prayer of a Godless ritual



poetry without words

The prayer of a godless ritual

I touched a stone
with Christlike Freedom
that descended from
a silent kingdom.

Enchantment guaranteed
of a violent wisdom.
I have forgotten,
I must have forsaken.

I looked at the grave
bearing a strange scripture,
I looked at the stone,
I heard the wind whisper,

patience has a virtue,
and patiently i watch,
today that makes you holler,
tomorrow makes us laugh.

The cosmos of skyscrapers

Freedom of expression is not the pillar of any establishment but the plot of land where towering giants stand inspiring fear on their height, veiling inner completeness and fulfilment behind strong, shining exteriors. Monuments, like art, are the defining characteristics of our global civilization that aims to rise to the skies. On the 9th of february a few punks desecrated an old temple of our generation, and on the following days there were tremors across the country. I look from the terrace of my building at the scenery of slums, grounds, and heavy, mournful buildings. From afar, I hear the alternatively angry and bitter, rapturously cheerful and friendly voices, in a silent destruction of objective laws through the imagined physical expression of games. The punks had been tried in the courts and the papers for a fit of rebellion that they ensued in a dance to evil tunes, inside a prominent institution, and with such unequivocalness as would be accorded to the devil. I hear the noise in the ground shatter the silence of the open terrace, in the cosmos of streets, homes, monuments, skyscrapers, temples, malls and cinemas old and new. 


He was not given to lead the life,
but was given to lead the road,
“it’s all the truth you know on earth,
all the truth you need to know,”*
in this parted the ways of men,
in this the men shall go.

 lines in quote are keats, or thereabouts


The song of the cipher

The preacher is waking on His birth,
A heart has fallen upon the evening mirth,
The smoke from a burning wood,
And the silence of a wilderness,
The cots upon a hilly, turning Earth,
A heart is following from the evening mirth,

The sun is shining,
A quiet wind blows far away,
An unintended weather,
Of human gathering,
The teacher is swallowing,
Coffee from a mug,
And the preacher is following
Signs from a written word,
All is calling life upon the moor,
Of some natures solicitude,
The wind is flowing,
Fall it screamed
To you and to me,
And in the ears of his soul.
His sister is enjoying his company,
A young woman, of old courtesy,
By the waiting table,
Enjoying a late afternoon supper,
Waiting, it was getting late,
Another should arrive at her date,

The preacher is singing upon the moor.

He is falling by the door,
The waters retreating, silent as my heart,
Oh he has fallen, upon the mirth,
A soul has felt the weight of the Earth,
A heart has left,
A bright blue flower,
Of blossoming silence,
In sight various colors of day,
Green science, kindness of trees,
And vague sorrow,
Fill the homes of a thousand
Wild burning trees,
Upon the burrows,
Delightful clothing
Are flung about the homes,
Of the preacher’s thousand children of either way,

Alone stood
Thousand tomorrows
For today,

Men of old,
Calling out to thee,
While the song of the cipher,
Called out to me,
When he befell on a bank holy
And learnt in his wake,
The cipher calling slowly.
Vague memories of another world,
That I once knew, happily,
Among seven, or nine,
All in one, all in mine,
Words spoken all in time,
Four hundred at one time,
Yet hollow they were, as i see,
These words that belonged to me,
For as they spoke,
They were weighed,
And such as silence,
They were great,
All the stars,
Hanging above you and me,
That the sun
That seems not quite itself,
So far away,
The blessing stars,
And the blessed earth,
That wont shine today,
Upon the earth.

Awakened to the morning sand,
Weather that is out of hand,
Breathing the winter snow,
The waterfalls flowed,
Admitting no cold,
The warm huts glow,

Tomorrow is a better day,
How shall i abide today?

In the mildness of broken hearts,
Lay a waterfall,
And your soul ran across it,
In the wildness of your stolen heart,
Colors run in,
In the deafness of your human soul,
In the morning, that all is still,
Freedom of the human will,
Falling down for me,

In the violence of the early morning,
Falling stars are screaming,
Deafness of the birds,
And deafness of your silence, now
The story is forever told,

Of all the pains and joy,
Of the world,
Are but a single nigh.
The agitation in the sky,
Burning like a wilderness,
Tomorrow that burns bright,
Today that i cannot abide,
As you are falling,
Falling for me.

Sand that is slipping ever,
Hands that are clutching forever,
Knowledge, you are falling,
Falling down for me,

Spoke to her one morning,
For one night and one day,
Until you realized it was getting late,
In the hallway someone is watching,
Fate or death, it is hard to say,
Yet as you ask yourself,
Greeted him not,
As a mirage,
You place him not,
In the hall she is still there,
Watching the children,
At their games.




Sound of the waves, sight of nothing

Art is a terrifying silence of the mind echoing words passionless,
meaningless, centerstage in lifetime of arbitrary, mournful raptures.
Art, like society, is born and it dies, is a new world like each
passing day. Sulking clouds gather on a suicidal, remorseful winter.
To begin in terms of society is to live the fire of reality. The
terror of words and life begin to manifest at death. Before that youth
traveled with the very bourgeois idea of a burning sky. It is the age
of wandering into the coming world of tomorrow; the years are but
laughter, tears; wonder breaks upon a night. Freedom, a sublime
partisan virtue, is of the domain of thought, and exists therefore as
a form of expression, while at the same time, words and life are pure,
and even slavery is chaste. When we realize thought, then we, a spirit
structure, a weary, bored fragment of a transient interaction with
dimensions such as solitude and longing, have the opportunity for
wealth not of eternity or meaning, nor truth, happiness, freedom, but
a maddening light that escapes into time.

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