Each word that paints a story...
I find myself most content living in between
residing there in the space
between each verse. Between the story, lives another story unseen
And I ache to stay a little while longer. Where pause breeds contempt from the chaos and order.
Here there are mosques in Vegas. Monks in brothels and prostitutes in temples.
There is no honor here. Only passing hours.
The hierophant beckons me to try. But dogma and tradition no longer apply in the modern world. I feel the edges of this page burning away. My story is losing meaning, is disappearing altogether. What is left with no verse, no space for me to curl into? No language for communication, or bridge for connection.
The chapters written before my emergence are mirages that live to torment me. I cry and I cry for days gone past. The path I walk has no way back, and to move forward has become torture when knowing there is nowhere to go.
In bed I am weary when drawing in for repose. My body, like divided sectors, shuts down one corridor at a time. Sealed inside, no one can enter and nothing leaves but bitter perspiration of a novice's error in beholding divine.
I am dying, but the body continues its breathing. Though now, with all illusions fragmented, the reflection in the mirror is a distorted representation of your face.
I reside here repeatedly, a beggar,
a weeping clown in your carnival's maze.