THE NIGHT
I can't enjoy the taste of fanciness, devoid of life or death,
I enjoy the taste of imprints left, they hold the gift of history.
Every piece of nature wrapped in the chaos and stillness of darkness.
Places filled with the magnetic air of chilling nothing,
In the breeze of far sounds, maybe music.
A deprivation chamber, relaxing your conscious,
Inviting your subconscious to the dance,
Awakens the butterflies which love stories portray
Unrealistically.
Nights when with a knife you cut through smoke.
When in the connect of disconnection, you are true,
When you find naturally the courage to view
Your masks in their irrelevance, really.
Demons rule not just to undermine.
You see them with the other eyes,
They shake you to not get lost
In those neon lights...
Nights when you stare at your hands - seemingly foreign.
Corrupted by insignificance or living the lust of life,
You either drop wasted in a bed, thinking of the ultimate
Or you drop into safety, floating to cloud 9.
Whether it's sweet dreams, nightmares or insomnia,
When you wake up, you wonder: "Who survived?"
We've built daily seductive mirages,
The night became the only space
Able to hold our vastness in a personal ocean.
Dare you wander through,
To find the beginning and the end
With all the colors in-between,
The knowledge and the dread.
The love and the pain, the power
And the within - the void
Blending creation and destruction.
Life and light are rocked by dark arms
Cold to keep brighter, a reminder:
From dusk 'till dawn we train for eternity
Until days leak less and less.
Every day erasing fewer mysteries uncovered,
By primally pursuing the unknown
The retarded "itch" we don't know why we own.
Be it, curiosity, need - however you choose
To paint it.
Sometimes your body understands first,
When from deep sleep you feel cut away
Like a nail ripped from the flesh
That aching corporatization of 'you'.
When you switch after waking gracefully,
With the weight of realizing you left
Fragments of ghosts when going to bed
It's still life flashing before your closed eyes
Or with them open wide, past curfew.
Through the endless creativity of nature
Some patterns prevail, studied, forbidden
Or exploited with greed and no vision.
Yet, a pattern unshaken by change is;
At least a tiny seed of the uncanny
Is intentional or not; carried,
By whomever belongs into the dark.