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Broken ankles only reflect the mind's walk. Running races gets hard when it turns out it's only running in circles and the goal to be reached is a false faximile of what's to be obtained. Is there a real goal or is there only the imagination running it's own race on broken ankles? When these goals are being chased after on gimped appendages, weither it be the legs or the mind, it's appropriate to recollect and reflect on the knowledge of the past. Too many questions have yet to be asked and these goals only seem to distance themsleves further or disguise themsleves so as not to be seen by the injured runner. Where does this all lead? Possibly to a section of the universe where circles are transformed into straight lines and the strong become weak. Or maybe there IS a finish line and a destination prize that can only be obtained through hard work and determination and the struggle for a way to make things better. But who's to say? Give the racer some water and a bandage and let them finish this race that possibly has no end and maybe, just maybe, there will be a means to this insanity. |
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Green gorillas and Maroon monkeys run rampant through the field of a sightless shepard. Along with radiant lycus' and liquid roses, these bold beasts flood the shepard's pastures with pugnant excrement and make it hard for this blind servant to walk straight lines around his flock. |
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On the wings of a glorious dove, I fly. With the strength of all those which I know no names, I fly. The top of an atmosphere that glows with the pollution has only been more gorgious when the world began. But still that same pollution is what kills the innocent doves and the nameless barbarians and makes it hard to fly, killing my soul, and making it difficult to breathe. The air is thin and polluted and now that the doves and the barbarians are dead, I fall. Into this black abyss of confusion and turmoil, I fall, and can fly no more. |