Vox Humana - Wail

Thu, 07/04/2013 - 16:24 -- snash4

Blessed are the philosophers
whose dedications stained the eyes of humans staring up concrete obelisks,
dazzled by the Stars pulsating in the enigmatic darkness of a top floor apartment. Vaporizing the self and entering into a new social contract where they relinquish body in return for the revelations of waking dreams, who grimace as they impersonate martians walking through down town mars while they contemplate their memories of Badu from art class. 

Oh and yes, they do persevere through nights of heavy melancholy, theological frustration, and a peak followed by extinguished consciousness only to repeat the ritual continuously. 

Philosophers who wander past the noble eightfold path to enlightenment
haunted by metaphysical agony and who become perplexed by docile humans , who break trees and study Kant's philosophies during long tired nights, killing themselves just to understand. Wandering through coffee shops, and libraries, and churches, and classes cracking pencils at 1:33 a.m. Scribbling thoughts and theory and theology fueled by a concoction of caffeine and ginseng , Who twirl in an existential craze, never so dissatisfied as to find themselves so completely alone
Who shake in agony inside of monumental angelic statues and fake prayers to a god never felt.
Calling on a distinct feeling experienced in an empty room 


To  decipher those incomprehensible mantras that reverberate in the mind yet seem to approach  the frequency of the soul, whose vibrations cause one to prostrate themselves in front of the cold universe demanding permanent elucidation. 
Blessed be those who choose the lotus position but sore from sitting too long 
Blessed are those who endure the stressful chase of the halcyon high and stop to try another route
Blessed be those who search , and yet can never seem to find the God they lost. 
For they long for the ultimate connections to infinity that open the hemispheres of the brain  to form wings, but leave the body starving and naked . 

Oh I can hear their cries, the lament of humans cold from love, shunned by seratonin , and trapped in black amber Who howl at the moon, and wail at the sun. burnt-out on monomine oxidase, and bound books, and sealed knowledge, and  unseen gods, and mortals! 
Trying to re-saturate any amount of color washed out by torrential rains of a reality so apart, that they drown in dismal thoughts of speaking completely extemporaneously.
Sensational beings sent through empty homes and nebulous lives and loveless bodies only to be forgotten In the end. Crooked angels self medicating with Colorado flowers  and reposing with Colorado flowers and composing California!
How crooked becomes an existence wracked with utter solitude! Crippling Seraphim  to the point that they're disgusted with their own existence as they writhe in their  own skin
But I can feel the wind 
It bathes the body and lulls the tormented, lonely soul into the fantastic cosmos


And rests  that soul who finally, in possession of total concisenes,
travels across the universe, past pulsating stars and over apartment roofs , falling  from their dreams  frightened, scared,  and alone, but were surprised to find that they fell right into the comfort of their bed.


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