Thoughts
enrich the nothingness, the quill was slain into burlesque silence that
dreadful night, nailed stiff on the floor’s dirt, gazing at the ravishing stars
of another time that has passed towards future, the shades mesmerizing shadows,
or was it just listening to the savage moment of decadent existence.
A
mute hearkening into the unknown of leathery parchments, the maddening abyss,
where glyphs and runes contort enigmas of mortals and immortals, as they ascend
or decay into greatness nevertheless, something wicked, forbidden but tantalizing
into fathoming laced layers of virginal spirits, bearing the enlightenment of
archaic chimeras.
All
humans lurk beyond words unspoken towards zillions of untold every single thing
and, therefore, the quill was listening the unshaped edges of luscious
whispers, and the brooding of cherished solitude…
That
dreadful night, where aghast travelers and livid adventurers are twisting the
afterlife, spoke in languages of the mythical fantasy, recognized thru juicy
dialects and restless tongue, the quill glimpsed and noticed the dawn of
twilights and the twilights opening a new epoch, were no daylight and sun
pierced the thoughts. It would be a refreshing eavesdropping upon the infinite
of a single listening performed by ecstatic molecules.
Believe
the listed, heed the path, mind the howling, and attain the heaven of
considerations for when the subconscious will shatter in blazing memories and
the viscous chaos will enfold the liquefied shivers of gazing at the ravishing
stars.
…
The goddess, the witch, the nymph and the muse… they are not bound in the heavy
chains of the quietness when listening, even in their silence they express
their burlesque selves loud, clear, untamed and primal. They are the livid veils
that shelter the quill. They are the silken lashes that flog the surreal
engagements. A will and an epitaph hidden in the entombed concentration watch
over torrid notes of azure tranquility, vellums of obscured sultry and impish
sins within the Elysium Fields or deep baptized in the Styx’s mirage, exposing
obliterated consequences, into boundless laws and canons facing abominable
apocalypse.
The
ravens chant a pagan hymn, as the quill awakens in tormented resurrections, converging
into a unholy mass, under the obedient moon, in a waltz of carved clouds and
beams of darkness. The nothingness was and then it was no more, whispers,
hymns, howls, echoes, clouds, mists, silence and happiness of isolation, each
one birthed as a new creator of incomprehensive webs which can only be
listening for new antiquity.
It
was too late… a dawn of lateness into never-ending feelings… they arrived…
forbidden… forgotten… why was the quill stiff as a cadaveric rose? The sunrise
was not worthy to share the disemboweled solitude… They were listening; the righteousness
of magnetic grace and the raven’s hymn ceasing into another sanctimonious
hierarchy of the goddess, the witch, the nymph and the muse; a haze of
exaltation ascending into descent omitting to mark the mile stoning dawns of
deceptive ramblings. The dreadful night of discovery and teachings… all that
remain are acquired prophecies.
Times
do not pour… they claim conclusions only to regain emerald beginnings, dawns of
twilights… dawns of fleshes of night… heed and await the final listening… lend
your ear to a tainted quill that encrypts what the maze of calm has blended in
its chasms. The chronicled miracle of naked truths merges in daring desires of
engraved goddess, witch, nymph and muse.
And
they vanished invading every molecule of the quill and setting him upon uncharted
paths, where the weave of destiny cannot be felt or seen… enriching the nothingness…
the ravishing stars of another time hear the bewildering nectar of thoughts… unfathomable
confessions… to listen all is the sadness of silent isolation… to acknowledge
all… is revealing the Grim Reaper upon soul’s savory radiations.
