Overture

You are new to the world
You are the teeth of the day
A nascent ascent into the realm of duplicity
An interpolation of polarity's invitation

You are old to the world
You are opening yourself
Gripping greedily onto tattered fringes
Latent laments insidiously hanging lower, closer

Both together a tempestuous dalliance
until its diaphanous energy
the apex of its activity
dirigible by time
Extirpates the bifurcated set
Conflates them unto death

Deafening

Silence dissolves all objects

Unrelated to any counterpart which belongs to the mind

Silence has nothing to do with the mind

It cannot be defined

It is our proximity that feels directly

Silence is restriction

It is feeling without a feeler

No intermediary, no circumscription

Sound which comes from silence is music

Pareidolia

Quite an inconsequential significance 

This recursive feedback loop is. 

Coming into the world the same as I will exit as:
An amnesic.

To think about the myriad ways impermanence manifests
To posture rewritten history upon innumerable sets of constants 
A totally useless ephemeral honor

Ouroboros type labor 

I see fun, beautiful nonsense controlling itself
Enfeebling entropic forces with rhythmic sanctity
Eluding all definition or description
Is the unremembered worth living?

I'm looking for a song more belletristic
I'm gonna miss it all
But I've got it Now
That diaphanous prepidatiousness in our eyes
And our mirrors which equivocate it right back to us

Keeping Heat

Waking up, I never went to sleep
My skin a bridge
As I enter the unspeakable world

Although not impenetrable, we are omnipotent
In the same way God made the mountains
My heart does not choose to beat

The tiniest waving particle provokes rhythm
The marriage of illusion to a futility however likely
There is no point in sustaining bliss

Going to sleep, I never wake up
My skin a fabric
Woven into the totality of reality

Concrete

Through dim eyes
Crunched paper bags half–empty bottles boxed
A frequent perched-on penchant
Form the borders of a sleeping/waking space

Don't fret my friend
Don't bend under the weight
Although I'm not sure what this two-fifty will do
Or what you will do with it

Specter

I am the man you can't describe
Walking down the street with no name
I dare you to look me in the eyes

Only in my mind I am free
My time on this Earth my only penny
Nothing else to do but turn in and see

I am the man you can't conceive
Void of thin air rastered foggy frost
Living on moments that cannot be retrieved

Only I am worn from my consistent stride

Almost forgotten for what I'm searching

God knows when I'll arrive

The Good Observer

I can describe but not explain
I am passionately indifferent, painfully observant, and obtusely cautious
Devoid of greater transcendence, unweighted by perspective
While like you, I seek unity and clarity

I can hope but not persuade
That you will follow my analysis
Of a state of mind at one point we have all shared
Permeating order and fiction
Scribbling out a path of transit
Makes no difference in my book

All the world is a stage
No choice but to play along
But I am ever so aware that I am an actor in this
And that is what makes me an Observer
I'll never know which is worse, only what most prefer