Selves upon

There are selves upon selves, preserved on the shelf, reconciliation between outer limits and innermost projection. Protect the highest ideal, watch it warp you into a monster of concealment. Relish in dismantling, but leave some for your family. If you can't sustain, then gravitate towards destruction's calling, callously etching your name. I once thought I wanted to heal, to save. Now I see, I was only a slave. If the ground gives way, then close the curtain, sky of opulent forgivings. Clothe me in your robes of vacuum yearning, earning infamous talents.

 

If we can hold out a little longer, tomorrow won't feel so heavy. Leaden lead sinkers in an ocean of uncertainty. Rise, grave whispers. Rise and make me step on your dreams. So that I may breathe beyond this husk, the perfect image, make believe.

 

I know the artist is the final abyss kingfisher. He'll share a feast of intel-sense, but only for those who have mountainous appetites to relieve.

 

Keep your ideal separate from the scorn of the world. Keep it unfurled. Once it shoots forth from the mouth of discourse, it'll become your shadow, unrehearsed, critics torches and pitchforks.

 

If you can walk past the end-game with no need for home or lost token sanctuary, then even deaths gnashing dance fetter will bow to your scuttling undeterred.

 

Detour are cruises in the depths of humor. To be human is the worst; works like brand new, quit crawling, dry thirst.