I. Prologue

I keep laughing; once again
on the roof of the mushroom
where unbearable heat withers all colour.
The cemetery snow lies unwalked upon,
all though many ghosts have yet to pass.
Where silence was before,
now, there is nothing;
without noise, I am scared
for I can’t find myself.
The images are broken
where survivors should be.
Pieces lay scattered in dust.


II. Cold River Dead

Drowned; the stream of thought
runs without motion
into what was once named peace.
Only now it is blurry and messy
such that I can feel no more;
this page is blank.
I didn’t call for you, still you
betrayed me.
I foresaw that you should die
in the Rapid River, smashed
against the rocks, like that
photograph of you. Can you still see it?
For all the words you strived to find
have long been lost in that moment;
lamentation is no tool in the killer’s hands.
Only now I begin to see that which
was so clear. Can I take it back?
Can I take you back to that moment?
The king of mediocrity
killing his only muse.
Ruins of suicide poets
guard the River and all is cursed,
and this, in turn, is cursed as well.
The time is near when the return
to the fires will come and then…
the dead muse will give birth
one last time.


III. Furnace Reborn

Birth, as Death, holds a terrifying vengeance.
No crude cuts, no tests,
no mockery fittings, …,
only the first try out,
the most vindictive of all.
For there is no coming back
from this; no future self induced
delusions.
As Furnace is reborn
in the hills, the mountains,
in sacred concrete,
Hope & Grief cease to hold any meaning.
There is no end,
there was no beginning,
and Furnace never died,
yet, …, He is reborn.
And I am Furnace, and
all of you domesticated modern-day barbarians
are Him as well,
for He never died…
He never died!


IIII. Epilogue

The Holy Duality, always in perfect balance.
The dispute of the Empty over Nothing.
For I hear not the music but the
sound, decomposed and barren,
as from the beginning it was meant.
Alone in Perfect Space, perfect void of
Duality. Not knowing, not searching,
nor winning or loosing; still, forever
lost.
Contamination is a metaphor for Birth.
An universe away from thee;
Seek not and not find.
*
Write, with an empty mark.
Know, with an empty mind.
See, with an empty soul.
*
And where there was a River Cold
and where there is a Reborn Furnace
the Duality of Holy and of perfect form
always shall begin as always shall end,
in the never-ending, never-begun cycle of the
meta-form.
Be it Heaven,
or be it Underground,
is still a long way away from
Perfect Space.