04. The Very Late Night.

What did I tell you before? Did it matter? Well, the aching went away—that's for sure. But for how long? Almost certainly temporarily. So you'll remember what I've told you. I hope so. What's the password? St. Barts. Tokyo. Honeycomb. Good. Initiating Sequence No dinner by candlelight, As delimiter dawns, I do awaken Though, hindering on these kind words— Forsaken from death's pardon, The waiting begins, as a new rose Hath yet budded Great, here we go again . It's further away—is that a good thing or a bad thing. Depends on how you'd want to think of such a thing as having voices in your head. So— Very well then In the spirit of psychology, Believing in one's self is some sort of sign of delusion; Believing that one could achieve success, fame, immense wealth— What's happened? I'm being intercepted? By what? Heavy lies the subconscious mind Though nearly dead and shatters from its last endeavor, the kadavr That seems wrong And even in such a sense that I may one day overcome I have succumb to this, a knowing that what I had given Had not been replenished, and though love As ever lasting as it may— Was not in totality returned at all; And so with this, I wilt, As often a flower in fall does, And sure, An unpicked fruit, though not yet ripened To have fallen on its own, To bear seed to the ground, Or fruit to the earth— And there again, A reminder that I am all of God, Separating my mind from my eyes, And so from my own body, Until death does come To smooth what has been broken By evil itself, As arranged just so Outside my window Until time does end, And still only in death we remain, Until death do us part And death was won By my own war, not against time But with— And so the devil will leave his mark, Pity be that may upon him who causes to collide with honor, and truest love does spark and yet not kindle, As arranged, I've died without mine, The love which was no truer spoken Than it was written, Or felt, or sang as melody in song And still the string of beating, The drums or upon my skin, The doust cloth of simple intoxicating and shallow Breaths of… A gaseous odor, A colorless ease to come forth, From his palm, and so I welt, As if bruised as deserved, And bleeding in waiting, I lie on my back, Again waiting to be born, And with time, Will be worthy of love But not in this lifetime No love had I, But love to give No love had come to me at all But pain and hardships The things worn by others, And seconded care, A home made of garbage, And so I become Discarded. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©