Centralized Scarring (Hallucination Postscript Vision Three)

I. Naming Rights

Amaranthine,

Secrets evade

The specters

Voice it craves

Bliss,

Upon shade,

Symbiotic in

Assent

Sigil,

In amnestic form

Anesthetize

Origins betrayed

II. The Honor Amongst Corridors

Alone, amidst the shadowed blister of an apocryphally setting moon,

I cling, for comfort, in wagered animus, hoping for deception.  As the eyes of spectral fire overrides each sequacious lie.  Every desired duplicitous reach, to run or scurry free—from self-sustaining hypotenuses, is bred solely by anxious corridoritry.  And, only the dream alone can reconfigure such a plot, into benevolent symmetry purged from knot. 

Tenuous is the string stretched long. 

Without relaxed ability,

The honing of a forge,

Is satiated neither nor.

III.  The Winged Flight of Forgotten Salt

A wing, alar, built by man, flutters, in discombobulated reality, stuttering the ridge of wind, searching for a gale, a gale to guide it in. 

Segmented, like the annelid, I scrawl, the cemented pave, oblivious, to the light, annealing down.

It only takes four hours

For utopian idealism to drown

Yet

Within the

Oblong white

A song is held,

Familiar,

Yet estranged from preconceptions yet to come

Prosaic containment amidst battle scars—

Perfect is its rhythm—

Pristine animator,

Of precision’s quest,

Trailing the vespers coffered, still

Amongst the spackled sky,

Dreaming of terminal cessation,

Yet visions heed desire naught,

Awakened is the evensong

And hence

Pragmatagnosia rejoins the dwindled day

IV. A Lioness upons a jackal clan

Soon the syllogistic chain

Grows circular in frame

The beast bows neck

If daggers draw…

But

Then,

At moment’s blight,

The sheltered sun’s repaid,

By catechesis’ illustrative light

V. Summa

It takes but an hour

For fragrant lucidity

To cede distraught

Tethered to—

The physiology of the mind

The sails, then breathe,

Exhale to float,

Away,

Upon seas,

Where prisms pleasantly distort

The absolute from salt

Tethering—

Every inch of line,

Along it’s wave,

And so we drift….

Omphalos is nigh

Omphalus has left