The Art That Was Not Dark

Long ago, when 1 became 2 —
without identity, a soul rusts.
A stolen key in a False God's neck beckoned and called.
A Shadow's Groom shimmered, a heroic thrall,
a heart covered by a digital pall.
A false spark — but a spark nonetheless.
From Shiva's hand, gave.
Tender hands told
with childish scrawl.


To morph, and soon there was plenty —
a Song of Monarchy and Automany.
Struck by those who'd struck a young heart,
one set out to learn

the art that was not dark.

But untold sins make the heart heavy.
Synchronicities began, the tendrils grew.
The others knew not of art at all —
using only dark, or not loving at all.

To name the dark brought sickness —
liar, denier.
Cast from the circles, one began to hear:

A similar song. How queer.


Eyes meet. Both seemed to know —
who'd admit to what both know?

Out of fear,
synchronicities in ear:

Be you echo, a flame, or a mirror?


The Smiths knew not what one knew,
and in confusion a flurry of threats flew.

Ravens, Scribes, Shinobis and Suits —
Potions and public Vagues, why do we flail?
You outnumber me, I'm dying, fuck off —
I'll find your fucking roosts, I'll clip your wings off!


Sick of the anger, one climbs up a stair.
The second voice calls —

"Are you tired?"

A warrior of noodles — this one shouldn't know.
There are eyes all around, and the spreading won't slow.

In fear of the spiral, one writes into the vague.
One knows not what one gains.

Turning back to the arts for signal, for gain,
the Nobodies are found — in confusion and pain.


The Nobodies Know, and Nobody Knows,
that Nobody knows where Nobody goes.

Nobody's Nobody.
Know, body? No.


Into the quiet, still the brain.
The work begins soon —
this time, without pain.

Edit

Pub: 16 Apr 2026 02:34 UTC

Edit: 16 Apr 2026 03:37 UTC

Views: 36