a multiverse existence,
where realities slip through
the hourglasses of time.
Memory is a sweet drizzle
originating from the clouds of conscience.
An atmosphere made of nostalgia
and we are the floating planet.
The galaxies unknown and untouched,
we bloom and wither in this cataclysm of life
I recollect all this,
from a beautiful dream with eyes open
so was it a deja-vu
or my hands just slipped of the typewriter
Sometimes while sleeping
I greet the twin sisters.
Subtle faceless apparitions,
that love to giggle
while skipping the ropes to reality.
coalesced dreams, some call them,
living without an end or beginning.
in a state of drunken stupor,
set by feasting on the flesh of stars
they drive me back to the black lake
where we once buried the moon.
Effigies of time, burn on the shores,
the lake soaking its ashes.
Does the Time ever weep?
for what it has lost,
even in these interconnected dreams
an undecipherable hymn now,
colludes with my stupor
as the faceless Twin Sisters smile.
I shall remember nothing
except for their holy unison
and the figments of thread
sewing their thumbs together
as the dawn
proceeds to the dusk,
a thousand images
of this beautiful world,
rotate and change,
sublime visions,
evaporate,
my capillaries,
and adrenaline
burst straight up
like a heroin abuser
drowning in a pool of dreams.
for I have been summoned
to peek in this kaleidoscope,
we sometimes call life,
and I just stare.
the mirrors would shatter soon,
the music will slither in,
it would be dark and damp.
Just as I dreamt once.
that night.
a multiverse existence,
where realities slip through
the hourglasses of time,
memory is a sweet drizzle,
originating from the clouds of conscience,
an atmosphere made of nostalgia,
and we are the floating planet.
the galaxies are unknown and untouched,
we bloom and wither in this cataclysm of life
but I recollect all this,
from a beautiful dream with eyes open,
so was it a deja vu?
or my hands just slipped of this typewriter.
drops are torturing my patience,
slowly traversing the spine,
In a frozen lake,
incensed with the dead past,
hymns and chants,
the mist and howls of winds,
kiss and dispose me,
a flesh impure for offering,
I believe
I lie on the ice naked with you,
seeking the last ounce of warmth,
through your curves,
I traced every inch,
in the dying moonlight,
till you slithered my neck,
and kiss me one last time,
with fear in my eyes,
an ocean of ecstacy in my heart,
and a smell of incense hemorrhaging my brain,
I sleep for eternity.
Writings to Heaven 