Strobe

Strobe

Truly,

There is no night of the soul,

only that resulting ignition of luminosity

after the gatekeeper has been paid his toll.

There is a being,

that is but a specter and mostly a spectator

somewhere where the ethereal meets the material.

The conception and self deception of the night,

serves as a reminder of everything poignant.

From here,

basking in the glow of the moon,

from there,

luminous sunshine,

same numinous revolving and evolving planet .

A divine transient would be wise to take the scenic route to eternity,

perhaps on a lark.

perhaps intoxicated by lotus flower,

by setting up the punchline to the greatest joke ever told,

a cosmic giggle,

a heartbeat traveling on the flatline.

Always catalyzing and satirizing into form from dust,

well crafted hallucinatory projections.

The sort that come as intrusions,

delusions of a being that must be sick,

and enough of a everloving everlong f**k to have dreamed of the beginning and the end.