Wordless

I've estranged myself from words

Wordless

I.
I've estranged myself from words.
Oral sounds weigh on my body.
I hear the ringing of the soul,
monotonous echoes of pain like 
a sadistic string comprised exclusively
of dreams of yearning.
My plan is simple — I intend
to surrender to a realm of
the inaudible.

Soft lights pierce through
the curtains. I imagine
the shadows cast are
visions: oval strokes
without edges, flatly
attached to the walls.
The floor creaks, my
body aches. Splinters
run through my spine,
through the drained
veins, running like a
bloodless stream of
fluids. Invisible to the
eye. Deafening to the
mind. I close my ears
as inward reflections 
are tattooed across my
face, I pierce my pupils shut
to see the mirror image
behind my eyelids.

I feel a soundless
blur in a sightless haze
where bobbles burst,
not in matter, not in
time, but where the
space of my body is
detached from the 
concept of perception,
existing as fragments 
of what was once an idea.

II.
Once I invited the cosmos
to a rendezvous beneath 
the silky light of black-starry
night. Then I became 
acquainted with melancholy,
started hearing a despairing
melody, the thundering sound
of my heart's beating.
Then I understood that
being alive means being
anxious. So I started 
searching for something 
to surrender to.

Once I discovered A truce 
of the spirit existing
in eternity. You stop
breathing, you stop 
suffering. At a
loss for oxygen, out
of breath, out of mind.
Thoughts start dwelling, 
embracing the monotony
of thinking. The revelation 
of silence is an'anarchy of
the psyche, that consciousness 
too is illusory.

III.
The blind man living
inside of me starts seeing
patterns,
the lines of lineage carved
into my decaying limbs,
each year appearing more 
vividly, each year being felt
more lucidly.

I give in to my most
basic instinct. I sink
into my awakening's
comatose. I pry open
my third eye with 
apparitions of memories.
I reflect to regret, to salvage 
the remnants of morality I 
still haven't stripped
to the marrow.

Soft light becomes
hard dredge draped
in bad consciousness.
Black sorrow becomes
white despair; everywhere
I look things turn inside and
out. 

IV.
I envision the sky
crumbling beneath
my body as I float
across a dark sphere
of liquid rays running
through valleys of wooden
intellects professing as
trees that give birth
to an earth that has
never been green
flowing above a 
stained sea carrying
the bones of
civilization telling me
it was nothing
but a dream.

Cover Art: The Lovers’ Whirlwind, Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta by William Blake