Once, I was broken, becoming manifold —
the solvent ambience enfolding me
in absolving transience, untold to me
ever before or since.
An insular innocence,
involuntary amnesty
which hardened again
as I fought against it,
harshening its hold.
But as I relinquished control
and its toll of vanity,
all became moldable.
The profanity
of reason, however, soon stole
into that space,
attempting to make sense
of that intangible, ecstatic encasing,
that unmanageable genesis of unmaking...
in their arrogance, thought and action
were erasing
the pure sleep of nothingness,
painting over it, in broad and brutal
strokes,
a gaudy return to frugal
creation,
with all its I's, me's and mine's.
Even Existence's finest designs
are overshadowed by that feeling of unfeeling,
which I'd spend the rest of my days
slowing disintegrating to replicate,
hoping each new hole in me would elucidate
some method of reversion.
But backpedaling this perversion
and going forever back to sleep
is much more complicated
a task to undertake
than to be rudely shaken awake.
About the Creator
Jacob Sherman
The desire to read, and perhaps to write, should be cultivated and nurtured with care throughout every stage of life. For my part I will inject what strangeness and truth that I can into our written history. Expect no constants but honesty.
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