No grammatic corrections . . . please. Nor do I want you to bestow your infinite wisdom upon me, and tell me how bad I am at this compared to you.
So why do I post this or anything else?
I like to express myself.
My mind is a foreign land, where solids change into light.
I scour through, trying to make sense of the density and volume here.
I find no vivacity here.
When I survey this kingdom, where am I surveying from?
The land changes shape; from ice, to fire and ash . . .
Then it freezes again.
Where am I now? Standing on the precipice of something great and terrible, on the winged demise of hell, it lingers in me, dances through me. It cuts and burns the host.
And all my words are pale ghosts. Everything that is born of this land is nothing. Not worth a second glance. Who would want to live here? There is someone here who isn’t me. . . a stranger in this strange land . . . Who are they that knows it better than I?
When I look into the water of this terrain, I see pale skin, a body lumped and scarred, only the eyes are mine. Nothing else.
My mind is a foreign land.
It changes shape when I try to make it familiar, until everything I know is but a shadow of what I did.
Who is it now in the water?
I can only conceive it to be a devil, trying to tear free from that lumped hagged skin, this leathery bag of a person.
The perishable substance emphasizes the emptiness . . . the desolation. . .
It’s only me and the stranger now; we laugh at the darkness vested inside our tangled bodies.
I begin to invest in the perishable substance. It helps me traverse this deceitful terrain. Maybe If I travel enough, the change will be familiar, I will know when and what will change, when the fire and ash will remain, and when it will freeze again. That stranger, will be my friend. And they will guide me through this foreign land. They will lead me to the terrible end. A horrible and sound destruction will be there. Only then will the foreign land end.