Symptom of the Universe
Symptom of the Universe
Narrator:
Walking through town and glancing
through windows; a movie plot
is shown on an old television screen;
In a Deep Voice...
"We unfolded the scrolls and
danced to the rhythm of thought,
loved our worlds as others' fell
victim to oblivion; lost, the world
was too dark for a candle to stay
lit, so she shone my darkest of
thoughts, unentangled my identity
from my squibbish font, and found
a young boy still holding onto
ideals of beauty and futility;
yet it was never beautiful
from the joys being sang
in the mornings, for the joys
sang in the morning masked their
mourning, the rape and the death
of daughters daunted their
direction to divinity, so they fell
for an instant illusion, it was
never about the philosophies and
the beauty of some democracy
and cosmic sorcery, but it was about
the broken humanity harvesting
identity from the external than
the internal sovereignty; so
horoscopes they saw fit to be, she
sang love songs while chaos
brewed on my earlobes, while
my eardrums summoned a meeting
of chaotic reasoning, she kissed me
while a war was waged between
the colonies situated on my tongue,
it was the darkness that made us
distinct from the world's crowded
substance, even though we glowed
and lacked any figment of imagination,
we allowed ourselves to imagine
our pure existence, it was that;
us imagining our own purity, yet
everyone saw us existing, in a
slight century we found ourselves
forgetting how we existed, we found
ourselves lost in our own Oblivion,
on the brink of pure insanity,
I and my lover of sorts were
redefining our identities, she
questioned my existence and
the existence of our emotional
connection, she touched and pinched,
bit and licked, slapped and kissed,
punched and hugged, she could not
find my flaw, but then who had
imagined the other, the world,
me or her? We boiled down our
existence into a conclusion of
self-inflicted and self-indulged
insanity, she looked at me and
I looked at the world as it looked
upon her, an ouroboros I could
not detach.
She loved in fear of her
nonexistence, I loved her for
the fear of losing her, it
was mere fear meandering
between two lumps of hot air,
it was those morning kisses
that lacked depth, and the
everyday routines that allowed
us to believe we could live,
it was that simplistic breeze by the
windows that made us believe
we were meant to be; the mere
fallacy of ecstasy leading to
sentimental sanity, in those
instances our reality formed
and formed and we held firm
to the thought of us being
undoubtedly Gods, entities with
feet crumbling anthills, thus
we were gods, gods writing our
own Odysseys and giving forth
narratives, and yet we were
mere captives with stones and
pebbles to worship our form,
we were lonely, too lonely
to foresee what our acts would
give rise to after we had lived,
so we made temples, symbols
and made future civilizations
believe in our tales as true
descriptions of what was and what
is to be and we chuckled and laughed
and chuckled under the shade
of barren trees, held hands
when happiness swallowed us,
danced to the sounds of peace,
we danced and danced, through
our dance wars were waged between man
for the stones and pebbles we had
made, the worship brought
warships and slaveships, the
enslaved and the enslavee prayed
to us for a favour we could not
give, they stabbed and slaughtered,
shot and formed narratives about
who was nearer to our form, they
chose themselves as chosen, supreme
and others were meant to be
fiends or apes to roam around
whilst they sipped on their bliss,
as we danced we watched how
their hate grew to consume and consume,
soon their fall would be!
The dance stopped, we froze,
she looked at me and mourned,
she wept, spoke of how me
and her could not be.
Then the revelation took
form and we saw; I was
the Politics of it all, she was
the Belief of it all,
and the world was the Logic
of it all; I glared at the world,
and the world glared at her as she
glared at me: Politics focused on
Logic as the Logic focused on
Belief as Belief focused on politics;
an ouroboros the writer could not
decrypt."
Narrator:
Was this a love Story between
Politics and Belief?
By Eugene 'Philosophisticater'
Artwork by Anton Semenov
℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗
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