Old verse shine/ Dream match: Zygote vs Sacrifice
Zygote
A wandering sheik – two eyes turned upwards locked in a gaze
…as the monolith quakes, pulsating. Oscillating in place
Pungent aromas of dead fish and phosphorous waft from the lake
He stands up, watching – awake… but what is his name?
The townspeople call him; sorcerer, conjurer, a watcher of fate
the grass seems to sway. sunlight vibrates with a fanciful symmetry
He extends an arm to the heavens as if conducting a classical symphony
Wind ripples and quivers. dew drops split into two with a mitosis design
Methuselah hums with synchronicity - he closes his eyes and thus opens his mind…
Methuselah sees the present and the future, his cerebellum expands
Divulging its secrets. sunbeams beckon him, the wave spectrum commands
He merely obeys, feet trudging forwards so enlightened yet humble
The Gyroscope creaks. Dazzling yet fragile like a firefly in a bubble
Methuselah calls his horse over (named Equinox). Minds-bonded - symbiotically linked
Telepathically melded. Equinox neighs in agreement as they both stop to think
A notion is stirred as the wizard grabs from his bag a sacred papyrus,
Note this, he thinks – remember this moment and the landscape behind us
Winding roads wind and slowly turn like the arms on a clock
The wind cries out with a crack as the air snaps from a hard aftershock
Is it.. happening?
Critters scuttle and knees buckle from the plate tectonics’ hardened pressure
Methuselah enters the mountain town and admires its Platonic architecture
He basks in the wonder of the Gyroscope. It’s looming, imposing, so impossibly large
The Gyroscope’s entrance is guarded by a pool of Cerberus dogs crossed with sharks
Methuselah speaks the words inscribed on his arm, ‘Yosohoep lesyosuca’
A small golden box near the entrance of the Gyroscope opens and exposes its wonder
Releasing Venkateswara and Thor, Jarilo and Zalmoxis, Dionysus and Bastet
Sanskrit shapes illuminate – Sumerian Greek, ancient Abyssinian text
White ravens drift down from the clouds, and clothe Methuselah in gruesome attire
The spirits demands a sacrifice, and so Equinox is offered up into a funeral pyre
Outside his mind…
A passer-by passes by and spots Methuselah (the mans name is Enwaisee Issafool)
The man witnesses Methuselah levitating during his telekinetic and effortless ritual
Inside Methuselahs mind…
Horseflesh is roasting, sinews burning as alms, sharing their pain together as one
A green pearl is discharged from the ash. It starts reflecting the sun
The entrance to the Gyroscope clicks. Its door starts to gradually lift
Methuselah watches the gateway turn into a window with a swift paradigm shift
He hears a thousand years of creaking, he sees the magical arms coil –
As the Gyroscope finally unfurls to reveal 24 gynandrous gargoyles
They speak; “Methuselah, be not afraid… “Harmonizing their essence
They float in a circle and lure Methuselah inside. So calming. Their presence.
He steps forward. He steps forward. He steps forward a mile…
because every step is his first. He’s born again as a child
Foreseeing all fate, determining destiny while generating all outcomes
Methuselah sees his own death…
It’s stimulating his synapses with an amazing astoundment -
Methuselah turns around on the road and walks away from the mountain
vs.
Sacrifice
From slumber, wake to the calls of the Most High;
another episode, a schizophrenic node where time just floats by.
A whole life stuck in a stasis, where growth is a myth.
Expecting that a simple truth is supposed to exist.
A small television embedded in the wall seems like improper decor.
Each day is anticipation, waiting for the knock on the door...
Screaming silent noise. Each speck of dust it's own pious voice.
And with the knock, the static ceases:
"I dream of an ionized polity; our union's emboldened freedom revitalized.
Behold the meaning." An unfolded tapestry fell upon their tired eyes.
A massive symbolic nothingness. Concocted succubus from the pixel box.
"I realize you'll struggle with the meaning now.
But from within you'll pick apart your integrated mixed response."
Then the static resumed. Mind turned back to the blue darkness that inhabits the room.
Eyes upon the desolation that was once considered the core of Nature.
The street illuminated by the blaze of an ancient brazier:
the canonical vestibule containing the ever burning flame of war.
A couple hackneyed corner stores absorbed the poor:
the clearest indication as to what misfortune favored.
This gross gauntlet's exhausted by misuse and mismanagement.
And this pathetic display was Hope's market distraught and entangled,
yet... What they saw was an Angel... this, cloth like arrangement.
Crimson conglomerate, a black centerpiece with the script of the Empire:
This is Eternity.
This vast Heaven blessing the rabble with His ambition to prosper.
How could one forget the image, a monster; our masked enemy
with his finger on the wick, set to exploit such vast energy.
A single history exists, and the window that is peered through,
only traces the twilight, in the shadows where the fear moves.
Then the static subsided.
Again the drapery falls covering the hallway behind.
In the fore, but off to the side rests a majestic masterpiece with mesmerizing marble design.
A sculpture, divine; and he addresses it with piety:
"I dream of a unified collective, thus we pay the cost for the prize."
And pointing to the etching on it's arm, he recites:
"This is Absolute."
With eyes upon the devastating implications of entropy.
A pixel box full of hope in the face of integrated, infected deeds.
Within; more than what one could expect to see,
and yet, it seems His smile resembles a full introspective peace.
They ask for an acceptance, beneath a City of Smog,
one could simply consult the window to see that desolation is privy to all.
In this outdated machine their belief in dominant subservience
should facilitate a true crisis,
existentia; so obviously permanent.
A combined persona emblazoned with abysmal radiance.
But it doesn't...
And when the static resumes, underneath the afternoon dusk,
it only takes one to recognize the consistent sapience passing through... us.
Panorama: from left to right you'll notice the crystalline wasteland.
Each citizen frozen in place.
Sand from the hourglass levitates an inch from the ground.
Each body breathing, living out their existence through sound.
A pixel box screaming destitute agony.
And when the static ceases, and the screen is filled with color again,
the people come to life for a brief episode of love and regret.
Blinded by their hedonistic passion for aesthetics,
a simple turn of a key turns madness into essence.
An historian could summarize the absolute's intention,
but language can't describe the nature of such intractable impressions.
Humans embossed. Not on a canvas where truth isn't lost,
but inside a series of inevitable decisions you must choose at a cost.
Screaming silence through your pixel-stained window.
This is Reality.