There was a time when
there weren't so many
healing words
Words of truth
Shades of stillness
An all too singular
irregular art
When I lay adrift
in the driftwood of self-absorbtion
something about the
self abandoning it's appendages
Comfortably dead,
yet mourning its own death
all the while working
towards some kind of finality
Death,
a constant yet sloe reduction
of any positive intrinsic facility
or strength,
the acceptance of time
as the continuum to which
our assertion is assigned.

Choice - a death in itself
a blameless, faceless,
facile death
proving that first-circle fires
have not yet left us.
It seemed a forgery of nakedness
to have plunged into the trade of emotion
any kind of primitive
purgatorial assertion
proving the option overlooked by man
the mechanical being the binding thread
the slow sliding greed
that separates one day from another.
The greed that fills one
with such extreme self-loathing
that after a while
the "Want" is the same as the man
Every monster is made with direction
It is the emotion that makes it faceless.

The emotion that freezes morality
A feeling greater than any
form of humanism
A feeling magnifying
the lack of warmth
in our core
showing us to be whom we are
scattered by our greed
collective in our depravity
searching through time
needing to justify our essence.

Give him the chance to think
Thought
Wasn't that the strain
on the Icarian escalator
to start off with.
Thought
tiresome, miserable,
Lying there
thoughts like jailcells
in my brain
All of them breathing
next to each other
moving on from
all the principles of hardsell
Each through a tool,
a stretch towards a greater gap
hiding itself in the effort.

All of them
fusing in their collective misery
setting the ideas
in opposition at first.
No one turning away from the other
for one turns only to darkness
Darkness in hunger
and hunger in darkness
and space
which sits on you after a while.

Is this voice of the new age?
The silence, perhaps.