#harseer

[harseer]

Where's my heart, man? It used to be so big it would shadow the stars And now i can't even see it

[harseer]

every day and every year i grow more and more insane my mind spins wilder and wilder but none ever notice only my flesh which grows more and more decrepit without i ever finding myself any wiser only the world ever quieter

[harseer]

Supposément, le temps a raison de tout les maux. Et pourtant, j'ai l'impression de toujours ressasser les mêmes.

[harseer]

Hard as the edges of velvet shadows Sweet as the ice of winter coated pluton I swim along the current of the ways Raging in symphony at the boredom of my task Hunger begotten to the sustenance of such flames Indolent sleep as wait for the belly to hand veins And yet, again, raging. Hungered slothful wrathful cycle of mind not my own. So divine the circumstances so mortal the acts I find myself losing sight of the nape For an instant believe myself as them And yet, again, my gaze returns The same current which teared them away Now drags it back home Uncontent to let me fucking sleep.

[harseer]

And so she went, from up in the heavens where there is no world And down to the below where there is no world.

And as she went, she dragged her scepter with her And its weight against Cloth made many things which bore name.

And those things which bore names made love and hate And did such that new things emerged which bore names of their own.

And so did the new things And the newer things after that.

And so on And so forth.

And to this day none remember the names of any of the first things, or the new ones, or the newer ones after that, safe, perhaps for the Witch of the Below And if you wish to know them, then you shall have to seek her yourself, for they say that if she were to ever rise back up, the weight of her scepter along Cloth would cause the last of things fore it to unlove and unhate such that they would have their names be lost.

And so would the second-to-last of things And the third-to-last of things.

And so on. And so forth.

[harseer]

Heroes, Great and Many

Shall rise to the chase

Of inacaprable divinity

Seek the trails of the heathen

Tell the path of brown shadow

Under the toes of a clock

Within the ribs of a frog

Shall meet their birth pier

[harseer]

There is a library by the riverside.

Just down from where the poles grow.

It can exist only under the darkness of a moonless night.

And when eyes and ears come, it goes.

Poetry, Sagas, Encyclopedias, held only in the taste of a binding,

The smell of paper and the wetness of its long-dried ink.

Come blinds and deafs and dullards, read as you always have.

Works which may as well never existed.

In the library by the riverside.

[harseer]

Is it really so unreal?

The sights you see are only ever photons, bouncing into your eyes, never the object itself coming to you.

The people you meet are only cells and molecules bursting into each other, there are no such object as flesh or mind.

The planets and stars themselves are only the middle throes omnipresent of a universe equal in every part.

And if you seek yourself, you shall find only yourself. And if you seek yourself finite, then you shall find me.