ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Here I sit,
and here the paper sits before me;
here my hand is moving and
above, somewhere
my thoughts unfurl like wreaths of ribbon,
unwinding, curled and layered thick
with old dust, old dirt, old pieces of me
(and pieces of you, and of them, if I'm honest)
and all the parts are whetted from the slick silk of my mind and I think,
I fret,
they'll fall someplace and settle in the corners,
and in the darkness they will be
shapeless.
Here I sit and will the words in solitude,
and speak my truths to bare walls and dead furniture,
and to myself
and to no one
and it festers;
God, in His high throne, is listening
(but these words are not for Him, and in His grace, they fall purposeless and wry upon the corners; they know their fate lies elsewhere, and the corners know no difference)
If these words are mine,
and if I should command them,
and if my brevities and indecisions cannot will them to their wielder,
than I should hope his hand to strike out from the corners
and to hold them, nonetheless;
for here I sit alone and with my silence I command my truths unto the walls,
and to them I speak reality, I speak psychology, I speak love,
I speak myself into existence, taking shape beneath these passions
(these ashamed truths)
and the charged tufts of stardust willed from other corners
and for one flailing moment I pretend these walls are their intended audience,
pretend this mind exudes itself (turtles, turtles, turtles – all the way down)
and here I sit, deluded, with my paper and my pen,
and my truths upon the walls.
And you sit,
and they sit,
and there sits he,
and the world is none the wiser.
and here the paper sits before me;
here my hand is moving and
above, somewhere
my thoughts unfurl like wreaths of ribbon,
unwinding, curled and layered thick
with old dust, old dirt, old pieces of me
(and pieces of you, and of them, if I'm honest)
and all the parts are whetted from the slick silk of my mind and I think,
I fret,
they'll fall someplace and settle in the corners,
and in the darkness they will be
shapeless.
Here I sit and will the words in solitude,
and speak my truths to bare walls and dead furniture,
and to myself
and to no one
and it festers;
God, in His high throne, is listening
(but these words are not for Him, and in His grace, they fall purposeless and wry upon the corners; they know their fate lies elsewhere, and the corners know no difference)
If these words are mine,
and if I should command them,
and if my brevities and indecisions cannot will them to their wielder,
than I should hope his hand to strike out from the corners
and to hold them, nonetheless;
for here I sit alone and with my silence I command my truths unto the walls,
and to them I speak reality, I speak psychology, I speak love,
I speak myself into existence, taking shape beneath these passions
(these ashamed truths)
and the charged tufts of stardust willed from other corners
and for one flailing moment I pretend these walls are their intended audience,
pretend this mind exudes itself (turtles, turtles, turtles – all the way down)
and here I sit, deluded, with my paper and my pen,
and my truths upon the walls.
And you sit,
and they sit,
and there sits he,
and the world is none the wiser.
Synaptic Fragments
A view of how my Alien-Hybrid imagination stumbles through this existence via rough sketches and ideas.
$2/month
Suggested Collections
I'm afraid it's turtles all the way down!
© 2010 - 2024 MyrHansen
Comments1
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Especially Atlas.
Very nice on this one.
Very nice on this one.