tentacle
who speaks thru me i am asking myself
only the thin reedy voice of the future drowned out by a noisy past
my poured ears
my tendered arc
we reach dimensional nebulae that unfold by intuition
inside each burst lies the entropy it negates
oh western spirit stumped by paradox
who is it then who speaks through me?
i am the tiniest voice you will never hear
says something lodged deep in here hiding in fear
babylon sirius at the feet of the sphynx
the island that sinks
its people however risen
we emerge from a strange past drowning us out
we never remember anything at all after its over
but its ingrained and brained into you
then though you feigned innocence no inner sense
as if you saw for yourselves the realms of the dead
not just the tombstones and flowers all around
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