not even wrong

in a dialect of nature our people use to know.

language of ancients.

now voices yell science, scorn faith, deny the soul.

not even wrong.

sans humanity and unmistakably, other people only reflect who we are.

intelligence or fate.

witness countless versions of us, the observer, in others' visages.

can't read it.

all things are mathematically explained- somewhere, somehow.

it means nothing.

how much beauty do we see, but would never try knowing what it is?

paint a picture.

do you have enough patience for magik to exist?

we are surrounded.

true nature is found in behavior from a rested state; unforced.

closed, crossed circuitry.

i reject the notion to live a lie, or lead you on, or be dismissed.

freedom is free.

the king.man.child presents a full-scale structural and syntactic tantrum.

love you, still.

i don't need to 'be in love with', understand, or even like what i see.

that's the difference.

incarnate, a big hope for something to mean something.

i am unending.

time dances through the wrinkles on my body like an optical illusion.

patience is virtuous.

the pressure and the pedestal have defeated their own purpose.

flee from grace.

a bruised ego won't heal, but time dulls the pain into scars on our heart;

never hurts less.