Litkicks Message Board Archive

Seeing faces in the lines of a wooden table

Posted to Poetry

Inner merges with outer
No boundary
Between anything
Everything glows with holiness
In a view of the world
Floating three thousand feet above the earth
Though it may all be covered in dirt
From way above
It all looks Beautiful
And it all
Seems part of a higher order
Writing in the sketchbook
Of elves and goblins
Martyrs and drug addicts
And Saints who were never canonized
Except within their own minds

They all sat down to eat breakfast
But ate words of holiness for lunch
And climbed the ladder of existence
Where they found the soul
But forgot where
So no one else knows where they found it
So we all regard them as delusional
It was all just an accident
That posters of them don’t hang on every wall

The cursed slice their veins to get the evil energy out
The wounds only let more evil in
The holy whip themselves
Because the pain weakens the evil
And brings them closer to God

The drunks
Eventually wonder into caves
Where they are either devoured by bears
Or finally go to sleep
And if they go into the cave deep enough
They sleep the sleep
Of one who sleeps
Because sleep is the only way
To get out of a world full or scorn
And come out of the cave
And with pupils that dilate
To the light they see
Flowing from the mouths of birds

The shaman sees his reflection
In the mirror of alternate reality
And looses himself
As his psyche is torn apart by
Absolute terror and bliss
Pulling in different directions
And while the only thing torn is physical
The fissure is filled in
By ancient spirits
Who lay dormant for eons
Waiting for a vessel to express themselves

And yet, though the shaman
They are asked to perform tasks
Even before they have time
For their eyes to adjust

So they seek other vessels
And they see the lonely writer
The struggling scientist
The schizophrenic
All lost in a world they don’t understand
And they decide to jump in their head
Opening their eyes to things
They once would have thought impossible

The scriptures of the ages
Are bound in pages
Of ether
And floating presences
Many books
Are seances
And the world we see around us
Is a stage
To be lit
By lights we can’t see with our eyes