Voukah [Voo-kah]; home

Throne of skeletons

A vast, vague, vexatious mist of war. Remnants of a listless civil war of insurmountable regret and chagrin. None of this makes any sense.

But you fight. You fight for a causeless cause. You fight because you have been told to. The weapons you were given will make widows, but there are no opponents except yourself. You cannot widow yourself; you have no one to mourn for but yourself

Petty qualms. A wave of ashes swirl in between your fingers like a acrobats performing a technical routine. All of this is routine to the human psyche.

Sitting on your makeshift throne of skeletons you have created. Once-flesh beings of nature incinerated by passion; incinerated by lust; incinerated by wrath. The fullness – the plumpness and silkiness – of skin is only a mirage, for you, too, will emaciate yourself from the lack of nourishment. The lack of psychological invigoration. The lack of sanity.

Reminders of beautiful flora: hydrangeas, lotuses, epiphylla, vanilla and cherry blossoms. One moment of exhale and they will finally wisp away from your consciousness. You’ve held your breath this long, ruminating about the feeling of petals – so succulent you could feel them sink in your teeth once more.

Take a deep breath. Don’t need to blow down the little piggies’ houses. Just let it all go.

A woeful dance of ashes as they waltz into evanescence. A last vial of tears. They’re all gone.

This wildfire you’ve created is a blasphemy. A sacriligous desire. The end of your asceticism.

So bare your red robe so you may once again feel light against gravity of the world. And let the throne you created dissolve into oblivion as you raise yourself out of your seat.

For after every wildfire, flowers shall bloom.

Light may never come back to you, so compress it, conserve it and live by it.

I live in a time when penicillin still works.

I live in a time when only one of two locks is still sufficient.

I live in a time when only half of us are tolerant of the other half.

I live in a place that allows you to homogenize in a melange of people in plebian and business attire.

I live in a time when rules are placed but are unevenly enforced.

I live in an era of imperfect transitions. Fragments piecing together like solving a puzzle of bloodstained glass after a cracked skull of an unfortunate unmarriage. In the name of what god, exactly?

A taste of milk and honey. Synthetic honey, no less, dusted with arsenic and sodium chloride. Die sweetly, you’d be told. Rows of paraffin impaled upon a chalice. A night of desire, or a night of mourn? A relic of the past, or a necessity? A contingency, perhaps.

A pen is only mightier than a sword if you’ve left your sword to dull. And if you devote your faith to your mind instead of another’s.

Petroleum. A sweet bitterness. A smell of death. We take pleasure in vapourizing the dead and profit from it. “Economics” is the common excuse. But could we be bartering our time to be appeased?

Nausea. Close your eyes to adjust. Open, and the sky turns pallor. Darker. Keep your eyes pried. Peeled. Don’t blink.

I live in a time when time can no longer live.

Multidimensional Analysis

Transient pain in the right upper quadrant. Unremarkable impression.

A simultaneous astrophysical kinetics of velocity, displacement, acceleration and time. An incomputable relation.

A unexplainable abrasion on the left cheek with no remarkable social history. Unremarkable impression.

A mathematical simulation to determine the shortest distance travelled between an infinite number of destinations. Postman’s paradox. An incomputable relation.

Incoherent babbling of displaced words upon rest. An unusual and abrupt change to intelligible speech when addressed directly. Chronic lacrimal dryness. Unremarkable impression.

A combinatoric analysis of multiple series to elucidate the existence of multiple dimensions. Unusuable numbers. Divergent series. An incomputable relation.

A chronic twitching of the eyes. A phasing in and out of walking into stones in the sky and lava. Hysteria. No social history. Unremarkable impression.

An unremarkable impression is an incomputable relation. Relationship cannot be proven deductively. Evidence is lacking. Voices are too quiet. An incomputable relation.

Diachromatic

Shed tears into a lifeless abyss of dimmed pupils and unquenched dreams.

Slender and silk to touch, you bear the grotesque fruits of despair. No matter how refined and quintessential you are in the broken city lights, you become adulterated by the soils of the dilapidated dreams that surround you.

You and I both are clueless why the dark night beseeched you. You grow to the rain and roughen to the listless that pass you by. You hold the knowledge within the school of Athens, but you are violated by the Trojan horse that sleeps quietly beneath your roots.

Ebony even in the brightest luminescence. You shield who seek shelter from the blistering sun, and listen involuntarily to the ailments of a maiden. Hardly one to complain, you gracefully sway to turbulence and rest complacently to the lifelessness around you.

You hold the secret to resilience with unmatched grace.

It is unfortunate that the broken lights shy away from your existence.