The Lines

by Jacob Browne, 3.24am May 10th 2021

‘Tis strange how trouble surely emergeth without fear nor warning amongst those whom waiteth submerged in what they themself claimeth. Their own knowledge inevitably confoundeth. Nothingness their truth. They clingeth it like a comfortable blanket sootheth. Unbeknownest it doth cling to them. Like filth. They batheth themself in it. A masquerade swimeth within this pool of death and destruction hidden within castles of gold. Yet all around seeth what truly tis. As sewage floweth. Shit to behold.’

‘A way out is found when one surrenders one’s will to findeth the way. As if from nowhere tis there and somehow always twas. Always haveth final say. Twas same path one once walked one willst walk now and forever. First and last. Faileth to see tis most obvious inflicteth most crippling blindness like taketh blade one's own eyeball sever. Shortest distance between two points twas always straighteth line. Tis no seeing through glasses lensed with fear we holdeth so dear. Our lot. Yet doest not we construct them believeth truly twill allow us seeth what others doest not? Yet disappear vanishing without sound sight or sign.’

‘We have never seeneth wayeth we doest go even traveleth far and wide searcheth we back and forth along and around the horizon never seeth beyond. We haveth never seen unable long and beyondeth invisible firmament. We blindeth thine own eyes by thou own sight. Our own perception our only lens. Our only eyes eyeless as sun giveth light that blinds. We willst never see.  Lurketh in the dark forever out of sight within the blind spot where it prepareth itself peaceful place whence at once sleepeth long and tired. Beneath the deepest deep. We chooseth our path. But doest truly start? How long doest that last? Wandereth within darkness alone. Craven. Craving. Undone. It will never cease to amaze how we may be undone by the simplest things. All the while bewildering bafflement lies in the dark slightly out of view. In the shadows. In the blind spot. Waiting.’

‘Many things doest hide within the blind spot. We knowest not. Cannot know. We canst but hope. Or feareth the worst. The worst terrors remaineth darkened never seeneth. Casteth only an ungodly leer. Uncontrolled seed thrown. Seeds of death sown. Grown in the dark. Pulled as puppets on unseen strings. Destined to remain unseen and unknown. Destined to terror of utmost intensity and absolute horror face to face against which tis no standing. Only branding stark. Unforgiving. Merciless unbeginning. Breaking none mayest escape. Only entreat once too late. Only delusion winning. Thus we canst but hope. But hope turneth to sorrow as surely as the snow turneth to rain when the summer months doest come.’

 

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