Faces of spoken worded harmony

laugh at my plight,

these feeble attempts at a mimicked life

as I break the trials

and tell the stories of what might be

by becoming the truth of what I will.


I attempt to effect a change of spirit

outside of myself,

while wondering on the inaccuracies of truth,

but understand its only given to my point of view.

My machine is changing.

I am brought forth

into a barbaric scream of intention,

adjusting to new ways of being

and testing my bodies functionality

against itself.


This is not may place or my dementia.

I am not lost

unfound by this void

that has me tabled in storied structure.

Ideas are never far

though my time here is fleeting

and unslowing

though each moment of mine is infinite.

I grow in spirit and depth

and each day my paradigm shifts

awaiting the arrival of spirit.


The past looms at my door and I peak

knowing the result of opening

and ready to do so if it comforts.

Aloneness is my nemesis

though it must be choice

for it is where myself is found

by dawn’s crack and night’s fall.


My search is not for the answer to questions

for the truth is before me and all around.

My search is for the questions

that will connect me with this riddle

of remembered existence.

After which

I may choose the doors and the path

to collide with this fated relevance.




2 thoughts on “The Border

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