Category: Wind is Thistles

Virtue is like a wild fire 

burning in the chest, 

and on the lack of integrity 

comes its rage.

…It is a place for killing because of the music too.

I think that I should avoid the shore, 

when the world is making a party 

to search that shore. 

Maybe threading my way through 

the edge of an uncharted city will 

better educate me. It is the understanding 

of the Self that I seek and not the knowledge.

…It looked full into my eyes for a moment.

On the surface of time travel, 

we can only see mere delusions. 

The nerves of imagination 

pulse and vibrate with 

extraordinary thoughts. 

Life is as stern and real 

as ever at the same time. 

And curious dark residues 

condense and precipitate.

…The Self closed itself in against the night.

Words always have 

a simple hiss in the distance. 

But their potency, magnitude 

and sheer odours expose the 

world and its receding tides.

…Some are attacked in the dark.

My breath made no sound. 

But I knew this was not invisible. 

Voices thundered in my ears and 

my eyes grew conscious of the 

Truth that lay outside of me. 

This is the unconscious. 

Humbled.

…Do you think an explanation would help?