Ellis Esco
Bio
I am a writer. A vessel of whispers caught in between life and the eternal.
Stories (3)
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I Know Nothing
Cut me deep where the pain runs shallow. Hurting feet from days long travelled. No drowning sun to illuminate the wretched way we wander astray. I'm out here cooling off on the eve of destruction day. Watching murder reels with the demons of yesterday, the lives spent cowardly following a papers orders. Sign your name. What is a name besides the false identity we claim. A lie. A dream of understanding. A horsley screamed proverb of some known unknown syllable etched into some mountain of ignorance so bliss it reaches god but still never hits. Always miss. Sins. Miss the mark but claim you made it. Miss your chance but say you saved it. For a rainy day. Now pour down the scorching acid rain we made. Tear down the stories of soiled skyscrapers we built erect in the image of the sex we claim head over this corrupt dominion. Importance. Nothingness. It all should be forsaken as God has forsaken what you preach as his image. Did he help you? When you missed the mark. Can you help you? No one is there not even the mind you ponder upon in your dust filled cave of complacency coated in corrosive codes you failed to live by but spew soulfully from some soap square set sacrificially so someone could hear with a rolling head. We're all better off dead. Better than killing in the name of nothing. What we know. Do you know? Knowing is man's greatest form of ego. The paradox of people. The claim the information ingrained is indeed indubious. Why? I know nothing and remember less. Am I really here? Not now. Past, present, particularly passed down through strands and spurts sporadically summoned by this decaying organ responsible for pain and anguish as well as love and information. An unreliable source at best. Like a schizophrenic inpatient. Claiming patience with panache and gloating in the dream that doomed the wicked masters. Equations equal to nothing but what's been decided adds up in our favor. Don't look behind the velvet curtain. The drawstring is soaked in the blood stuck to the fingertips of the one who pulled it closed behind them. Speaking in a grand manner the doctrine decided for decadent divinity and the excuse to live dead. Cold to difference and molten in hatred. No place to turn now. Just watch as it all burns down. Like a campfire fed too many logs and drenched in ethenol. Hold on to the ideals as vast as the ignorance. Miles. Drive along this path to nowhere until there is nowhere. Nothing. No one. Are you really here? Or are you nowhere far? Slamming your head into the wall of some other consciousness. Endlessness is nothingness. Existence ended when it began. Grasping the air to understand. Knowingness is nothing but pride. We are not here, we all have died.
By Ellis Esco3 years ago in Poets
Lucid Harvest
I'm pacing my minds lucid harvest with a sling blade hand. I place the crops in my basket case of wicker and thought. I'm falling so fast over the edge of my sanity trying to bring reason behind this imaginary treason. My eyes are slammed shut like shutters in Kansas when the wind picks up. But I can see. There is an ancient rosary held up by a blue tack on a solemn slate wall. I heard a voice say "take it back," the words seemed to slowly crawl,
By Ellis Esco3 years ago in Poets
