OUR POWER LASTS NO LONGER, OUR HOPE IS BUT A MEMORY:
The Horrific Outcome Is Unquestionably The Same:
The art of poetry is dead, in our narcisistic, self-destructive human world. Our potency is gone, our power lasts no longer; our hope is but a memory, and our bleak and bitter destiny, skulks ever closer, breathes us in. We are seduced by its dark embrace, overcome by the malicious, carnal orgy of destruction and renewal.
I am no help; I have no vision, it has passed regretfully away. Devoid of any sense of self, any notion of the real, any cosmic purpose, the horrific outcome is unquestionably the same. A great purge of all emotion, a sacred hearing of all council, of certain action, and of pain, all leading to the one, unavoidable and unthinkable, decision.
The fear, the one burning fear, the living all-consuming fear, and the beautiful tempation. The thought of it, the feel of it, leaves me paralyzed and shivering. I cannot escape the future, I cannot find the light; blinded by the darkness, and eaten by the night.
What is world, and in what fashion is it peopled? What is mind, and in what fashion does it function? What is life, and by what method does this ill-fated love bring us one step further to the end?
For once, long ago, all was right with the universe, all things were grasped soundly, within a magnificent and incomprehensible harmony, fashioned by a single, complete eternity, a channelled, flowing rythem, one continuous chorus of indescribable chaos, purpose, suffering, strangeness and joy.
The art of poetry is dead, in our narcisistic, self-destructive human world. Our potency is gone, our power lasts no longer; our hope is but a memory, and our bleak and bitter destiny, skulks ever closer, breathes us in. We are seduced by its dark embrace, overcome by the malicious, carnal orgy of destruction and renewal.
I am no help; I have no vision, it has passed regretfully away. Devoid of any sense of self, any notion of the real, any cosmic purpose, the horrific outcome is unquestionably the same. A great purge of all emotion, a sacred hearing of all council, of certain action, and of pain, all leading to the one, unavoidable and unthinkable, decision.
The fear, the one burning fear, the living all-consuming fear, and the beautiful tempation. The thought of it, the feel of it, leaves me paralyzed and shivering. I cannot escape the future, I cannot find the light; blinded by the darkness, and eaten by the night.
What is world, and in what fashion is it peopled? What is mind, and in what fashion does it function? What is life, and by what method does this ill-fated love bring us one step further to the end?
For once, long ago, all was right with the universe, all things were grasped soundly, within a magnificent and incomprehensible harmony, fashioned by a single, complete eternity, a channelled, flowing rythem, one continuous chorus of indescribable chaos, purpose, suffering, strangeness and joy.
posted by Valhenstrogg | Sunday, April 09, 2006
1 Comments:
My own near-profane reliance upon the worn and terrifying precepts of the utter frailty and supreme pointlessness of human sufferings, seems to have overwhelmed me once again; as I venture forth, only to wax insubstantial, divulging and indulging my eager frustrations to their utmost.
Post a Comment
<< Home