The Black Hole.

Beat around the brain-wall
Till the motion sets its own inertia.
There would be no more fatigue.

The blackness had a face.
Words in their own phase.
The last squeal of silence,
Till it's strangled by shame.

My appetite for patterns.

Stages.

Entry.

There are no blank spaces.
There is a clutter, of all that's familiar.

There are no fleshy faces.
Crowds of masks, braving the weather.

It is easier, baby, easier,
Than our self-silenced surrender.

Exit.

Threats.

For you, especially for you, the sun would be so bright, that it would burn you and blind you and make you regret that you were looking for light, ever at all.

The Ebb.

Dear Purest Form Of Love,
Unkown to you, you have made a big mistake.
You have given me the impression that I wouldn't be taking too big a risk, if I expect a lot out of you.
Give me that stare, even if it means nothing.
Allow me to fool myself, that you understand.
Sincerely,
Sir.

Wrath.

From one end to the other, the sphere
Completes the circular path,
It's destiny, it declares;
Much to its own wrath.

Then comes the naming of the stories
In the restricted zones
Of my mind's library, that
Imprisons words in tyrannical tones.

The unexplained wins.
Like a statement in the guise of a question,
Hypocrisy, intensely biological;
In an attractive pursuit of possession.

Dreamalikes.

With fresh dreams of one futile future,
the eye-balls raced beneath the sleeping lids;
the legs spread in a sprint,
across the world without a worry;
the arms clutched stuffed linen,
in one hold without a hurry.

Peace came knocking, and woke me up;
Whispered to my ears, it's time to be up.
I frowned and groaned,
Let me see some more, I said.
"Too much, already",
Exactly, as I dreaded.

And thus my eyes wrenched open,
welcomed the colourful darkness.
Sounds of the system serve a reminder of the real.
The debated desires in deconstruction, on;
a road with a memory and a story.
All washed away in the riot of lights,
My nights feel sorry.