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the night star
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the cops guard the intersections today.
it's too treacherous for humans.
too treacherous, too deviant, too dismal.
some dreams are too vivid, remaining for days, even though attempts to expunge their beautiful sighs are made, they remain, they remain, they remain.
and why should we, why should I, hide from beauty? from the indicative truths that life holds and withholds? as there is no reason to hide the hiding comes natural, selfjustifying and true. with truth as process, and process as God, can we, can I, ever doubt that the process is myself?
and in being myself it's nothing. no. it's never nothing but it's never God. what god is there but God and what is God but the most supreme falsification of the gods to turn our eyes from their fallen divinity, away from the imperfection that is godliness and the godliness that perfects, in moments of weakness, through emotion.
and the rejection, ultimately, is that of divine reason. faith is false.
and we, and I, am alone. supremely and beautifully. alone to feel your eyes, his eyes, her eyes, draw me in and make me part of your, his, her life for that one moment. and in that moment i smile and sing the songs of the dead gods, the dead God, just because. just when. just Just.
And yet, and yet the answer is still yes. and the details still hide. hidden, safe, and lost. to be lost when the gods look down again. and again. and again.
must we, must I, be a slave of life? Or can we, can I, hold up life and live through the truth-process that is precisely living?
"no."
"yes."
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