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NotebookOne.Fifteen.Untitled
by j z provo
7 aug 88
But the Ghost is the tiny thing...
Dripping thru the perceptual seive,
like images of future lives laughing
in spite of _their_ predicament.
Dare we jump the chasm of
Belief? And run headlong into
the land of the Walking Dead;
mud-plastered faces
mock our Emptyness
with their own
Witless Eyes.
What dummy-like lives!
They erupt from the soil
-free!-
only to burden themSelves
with the Useful
Odds and Ends.
Better to plummet,
screaming like a Mad Ape
Into the bottomless Abyss
of Life-in-life.
Soaring ever lower,
Our thoughts twist
and turn
As our perceptions Shatter
into the stark blades of Reality.
They follow the patterns of our thoughts.
The Walking Dead shriek hysterically,
for their blades of Perception
carve out their reality;
Just as We carve them up!
Our neverending Battle comess to a close.
The Victor?
...the metal of Perception is tempered
at a lesser heat than that of Reality...