W.B. Preston
The Geese a flock away from heated pits, flap plucked wings sufficed to fail afloat
fast-held homes, imitation castles, photocopied tombs with elaborate floor plans
ghastly fixed yawns on the faces of specters waft through and haunt the cobwebbed hallways
empty but for the musty aged forgotten breath of men.
Yet to forget is to imply memory, can oblivion remember? Can we rewind the void? Can I skip by the commercials of infinity? I DVR'd the Apocalypse, I'll time shift the resurrection, catch it on the way back up the spine of eternity.
Castle foundations swayed atop the shivering crust of earth. Bricks broken apart by wind and rain, but your couch will last forever. Nestled in the cushions of digital dreams of doom downloaded directly into your subconscious. Is it delicious? The dire dance, move and shake, if you stop you die. The taps and the shimmies and jiggles, keep rhythm with the bouncing sun, it twirls round this dark room, the disco ball of night splash shimmers on the sweat drenched face of love, dont stop. Cant stop. Never stop.
Watch as they turn their heads away, "We only wish to know of the light!" they cry, "do not tell us of the dusk, do not tell us of the void."
Inexperience of the dark, ignorance of the night, is to perceive half of the story, to know but half of self is to be blind to the light. Without the dark there is no light. Venture into that great abyss, into the nothing and come back with true sight.
Though journey cautiously, for many have been claimed by the night. To be a shadow in the void is to be lost. Be guided by the eyes light, to find a way home. However brief your stay may be, for eventually we all must be claimed, in the womb of the void.
The ghosts greet you with a grin, exposed beneath torn and ripped flesh you spot the rotted teeth and shallow souls of men who once were. The rush of wind through empty caverns blows out from hideous broken walls, the last howls of a whisper on the ears of a dead society. The wanderers of thought, lost in their heart, and fallen civilizations of dark, march on the graves devoid of spirit.
Forgotten trampled dust, beneath the perfect, freshly shined black leather tightly tied boots of time. It takes courage for flesh to release the grip over bones that plead to fall to the earth and decay. Animated skeletons unmoved.
Taste defeat, take a sip of failure. The day of every defeat belongs to the dreamer outlived by the dreams. Your echo vibrates further than you, so let the cries of pain and joy flow from your own personal void and into the void of the collective.
The destinations of all destinations, through the funnel of space, the Alpha Dawn. Every word every light drains back into the void, to the dark dense orb of matter, where everything is condensed and spun into the ball of fate. The ALL.
It spins, it burns and melts all the dust and light and dreams back to their liquid core. Where everything becomes one, and the spinning slowly stops, and the ball cools and freezes and drops and it hurtles through nothing picking up speed and begins to twirl gathering heat gathering speed gently expanding then gradually exploding sending everything everywhere. And we are here again, crying and laughing, at the majesty, at the beauty, at the splendor, at the precision, of the void, the all the mighty the light, the pain of infinity is felt by all. The collective ALL.
Children love to spin, men love to fall, and the fire engulfs us as we bask under the heart of stars.
