The writer’s nature, ever convenient, yet so appalling.

Easily can one stack the walls with telegrams, with books,

And to overlook the fraught comfort in it.

The writer crafts, and sucks in his breathing,

The minute sounds extinguished,

Until the tolling bells of the universe

Ring dear to his heart.

There is rage in the cosmological philosophies,

Masterful illusions,

Where poetry overtakes the sober reality.

Mystery ventures behind sealed doors,

And in those veiled rooms lies virtue,

Where The One leads his heart open,

And his eyes regress through the darkness.

His heart reveals and the eyes then seclude the absence

Light abounds, playing mischievously in the biorhythmic patterns

Of reason. Here, conception becomes born.

Delusion obeys.

Madness subsists.

Magnum opuses allay.

Reason denies, while intuition leans

Upon the magic this appalling nature

First dared to deny.