The soul of my dream is not my design


The performed thought , whether subconscious or not

How do you figure you’ll get through life unscathed?

Die with the stories of your life etched into the fabric of your existence, its life-lines drawn into your flesh with the penmanship of higher powers and the Fates.

Slice through to the bone

They say to “find what you love and let it kill you.Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.”

Dare your logic fall into a chasm of ontological indifference – this is your design

The soul of my dreams was born in the body of a serpent. Traitor to the cause it slithered away and I washed myself with the ashes of my own transgressions

Loving had been water in a storm; too much in it’s entirety. I had drowned in it, entirely willing , dying in love, with love, knowing love was drowning with another soul – neither willing to relinquish the ties that bind.

Criminal dance?
Animal in inhumanity?

I think not

You are a child of meditated rationale
Medicated through the psychosis of social convention

you are stabled by the endeavor to see the truth
Ostracized as different you burrow below to skin… of the subject
Bone deep, marrow shallow with a superficial peck of truth


If I call the phenomenon an occurrence of finding the love of my life – best be prepared to live for eternity. I will not have myself forgotten in death. Let our love give this idea eternal life.

 I got my immortality feeding on the steady metallic taste of loves rusty gushing heart.

“All is illusion – the words written, the mind at which they are aimed,the truth they are intended to express, the hands that will hold the paper, the eye that will glance at the lines. Every image floats vaguely in a sea of doubt- and the doubt itself is lost in an unexplored universe f uncertitude.” – Joseph Conrad

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