Through out my life my abstract mind has been able to detect and find patterns in life and the words people say. I know that life is a deeper mystery than people in the field of science and psychiatry think. I have battled with my demons, demons which I still battle. I rattle the cage fight in the desperate stages and write in the pages of my own story. I maybe a dragon falling off the wagon of sanity. However I am intrigued by her she is the greatest story I will ever gain. I know her name is Sophia she is the girl with many faces.
I still see her sometimes though it’s strange the voices quieten and sometimes even stop. Is this a coincidence?
My god won’t fit in my veins won’t fit in this skin she doesn’t wear a skirt she has shed her skin She is a soul she wears many faces Many races worship her she has many names and cannot be tamed my god is a woman she’s the soul of the universe clothed in darkness and white light and the many shades of the rainbow and she knows wisdom we all seek and sometimes she sends angels to peak through the clouds and sometimes she is quiet, whispering, loud and she speaks to me in dreams and carries the weight of her universe in her purse.
It tares apart like paper born from a saviour’s verse The devil doesn’t mind, she makes it worse I collect the curses I recycle them like newspaper rhetorical rhymes in my life of grime.
I shine like the steeple of church but I’d rather be the birch the trunk of a tree for this a goddess induced reality Wisdom causing minds full of incoherent clarity I lose my faith wandering in garden labyrinths the chances are we won’t find the goddess or her nymphs or there chalices in the angles or angel absinthe that we drink or think outside our boxes so neat we feel no feeling in our defeat yet we drink it all down like sad pathetic clowns in the pubs wearing our overalls and scrubbing away.
Polishing our lamps just to find genies or djinn in our lives that our extraordinary and full of sin yet we all fall beneath the skin the earth full of mud and shit the page half written is full of it yet it feeds us and bears fruit forms the roots of all we cultivate for man is no man unless he has a little hate and enough love to permeate his sad heart beating in tune to the bleeding womb he wants to enter another grand venture trying to give his child the wisdom of being wild and free while they try to chain his children with the care they placed on his shoulders I love you Atlas don’t get tired Or older the love that beats in your soul don’t let the fire get colder…