Reality and reason

As the flesh surmises the events rendered, it ask of nothing that can be held to it its name.
Short is the glimpse of beauty, even shorter is the reason for it to be so.

Alas the notion of its existence lingers on as a bad dream. Thus the moment traversed by reason. Reason that last, but holds no truth.

I beg you to understand that light will catch whatever trickle, but reason won’t.

Poetry being the dog buried.

Poetry is a latent submission of guilt, always.

The guilt of self-indulgence materializing as words.

Concoctions of dreams made fluent with laterally aligned symbols disappearing to the left.

Tapping the dream forward on the qwerty keyboard, sampling whatever visual effect the words invite.

And a sensual invite it is!

Your predisposition for flattery leaves you indisposed as you feel the importance of everything suddenly rises with your creation.

Lured by words… toothless allegation if anything.
This isn’t ephemeral. No, this is the imprint of God. Every word consumed is succulent with the taste of glory.

Self-Indulgence is a simple price you pay for such splendour.