#doransdeath

[dorans-death]

Agnosis; Phosphorant tales

Getting darker and darker, the moon aborts her reflection of him. A whole entity swallowed and completely engulfed in doom, this situationally seems like a grandfather clocks predecessor; she counts the time but strays away from what is known.   The worst of the darkness was bemused by him , he brought a valiant battle to the crime scene of the murderous crows that picked and choked at the futile victims. An inevitable loss of knowledge was triggered by his anti, and even though he was a saviour, he came to an obscure semise that he was the culprit. Even within a day cog nominated after him, he was still weak, only a distribution of pink secrets; phosphorant secrets. The souls of the dark danced with him, his troubles would arise again. The sun couldn't fight the darkness as he was soon impregnated by what he promised he would never become. A constant percolation had become of him, he seeped pure evil. A heroic light that had once adorned the saviour had now been discarded, and all that was left was absence. Agnosis. I pray to the sun and again, I am fooled. Another victim to the saviour. 

[dorans-death]

Release.

He jumped into a vortex of swirling mirrors, depressed into a whirlpool of reflection. An exact reflection of his life within an unpredictable and impossible realm. It was within  his own thoughts, that everything seemed right. Within this world his body was so bright and intense that flames caught alight and proliferated around his body. A burning man with a nonsensical reasoning that somehow within his own thoughts it was a reality. But the mirrors lied, as for a matter of fact, they weren't mirrors at all. He had plunged into his enemies mouth. A deception of mirrors tactically placed within her mouth had deployed the theory somewhere within his mind that he was within a bizarre world. Yet he was within reality. Within realisation of his foolishness, he is disrupted by the closing of her mouth, and the icy cold breath that created a flinch and a split-second stop within his body. He is trapped within what is now defined as reality and he cannot escape this reality. And even though this man has just plunged into the shackles of hell that will continue to hold him into the existence of eternity, he pleads her for another dive. Just one more illusion to remove the pain that has been caught within his mind and soul. She refuses, engulfing herself within his decrepit misery. A drunken slur, the man holsters himself, and breaks free, ripping the tight jaws that encapsulated him open. He whispers into her ear as he leaves her mouth, and for another time she hears, but does not listen. He climbs the exterior of her face, and clings onto each rock that he ascends on thereafter, until he reaches the apex of a cliff. And dives into the mirrors once again. Within my own subjective view I desperately try and find a release from the true form of pain; reality. My foolishness resides with the action of my plummet to reality once more. I sleep to release, but something wakes me up.

[dorans-death]

Ghost.

The crows eat me alive. Each crow devouring a part of my body, And I fade into the darkness, where I belong. It's like each insignificant factor of my life is a contribution to a singular point of my life where it's a turning point. It's like every single one of mistakes ever to have occurred in the existence of my time, have collectively committed to this certain cellular point of time. And I had so much to gain. I threw it all away. And maybe within a thought that might have crossed your mind, maybe you could have resolved the problem. But you didn't. I'm alone. And no, the sun will not resurrect me once again. I am in the abyss with the vampires and the zombies of the night. And every sundown I rebirth again! It's like an exaggerated curse, yet so dull within it's cellular structure! I'm dying to the sun! Kill me over Over over over. And over the pain, the deed finally concluded.  If only I wasn't so attractive to the malevolent crows that ate the consciousness of us all. Why oh why. Finally I have come to my death!   

[dorans-death]

Lapse.

The brisk water strokes her marks on the sand. Each touch leaving a graze. A mark of love to test it's time. And each touch divulges to the sand. All of her secrets and stories have been told to the sand; some are left behind. Her folktales painted across the sunlit sand. Each fragment holding something so precious inside of itself. A collaboration of human mistakes, and we find ourselves in a lapse.  Each breath withdrawn and expelled, to create a description of something and someone somewhere. As we breathe, the water breathes. Life becomes inevitable throughout all things.  And even the blood that we exudate to the earth learns to live. She grows out arms from the earth and tangles us into more roots, and we seem to lose ourselves so much. We lose where we are, where we come from, and who we are. But the stories that each breath holds, and each tide clutches onto, defines that single insignificant person, and together, we are a collaboration of human mistakes. Again and again we find ourselves in a lapse.  

[dorans-death]

Phosphorant Secrets

Sunday, a foolish delusional day creeping in and engulfing the area with her pink flames. But these visions are snared within my delusion and nowhere near a reality. And when I unravel, it's only self-discovery.  Am I Sunday? Does the grin of these foul souls conflagarate my mind? First a meander, to stumbling, then a swagger. And the sun excreted pinks tonight, within my mind she was still there. The essense of Sunday, still haunting. Still a lingering ghost taunting. Then the undercurrent hits, the third time in this month. The month is getting darker, she's dying. A birth; September is born. But Sunday still carries on throughout them And now i'm escalating to a point that i'm only painting things in the pinkish outline in what I saw that day, when Sunday took her last breath and gifted Monday. Yet cursed us. How I miss you Sunday, you are my love. The sun screams your name for hours, the feelings get swept away every night to portray the  glacial touch of the moon. Oh how you haunt us moon. I scream for Sunday sometimes, Just to see that sun exhale her phosphorant secrets. And I observe the desperate humans snatch a glimpse of her. That beautiful sunset as she respires into the night. She turns evil when I sleep. And does evil things to my mind.

The discernment is gone. I am stuck in a dazed dream during the night. I cannot hear the birds calling, and her song sing. As the sun waits for her day. Sunday again, three days before, a father had to bury his son during the night. An abhorrent barrage of bullets roar into his flailing body, and the blood percolates from his body, his aunt is begging and pleading the murderer, but to no avail. She kills herself on the night of saturday. Her soul seeps into the depths of the earth, and is held into a collective state where all souls are now kept. And now I shatter it every Sunday, letting the souls dance to the suns radiant smile. And they dance with me until Moon is bestir.  A frantic dance. And the sun returns to work after the moon kills us again. She sings again for her day. Sunday.  

[dorans-death]

More Haiku

The heat pierced the skin, Melting the content inside. Burning away slowly.