The mindless secrets.
They sprout out of my mouth, like the seedling bursts from the core of the earth, unable to tolerate the heat of the lava anymore, that was incinerating the mirthful drops of bubbles that tried to give the seedling a life of its own.
It was so dead. It only reeked of the possibility of life, that the farmer thought would benefit his fortune.
The embryonic seedling, before being born had thoughts, which didn’t matter. Had a crazy plan, which didn’t matter either. It had hopes, which were too heavenly to be real, I wonder as to how it didn’t have a brain to be rational?
The “seedlings” are the metaphors of the mindless, lifeless, powerless and arrogant “secrets”.
The washes of memories and the paint and varnishes that do not exist at all. They are well unaware of their incoherence with the truths of reality, however they love to fake that they know it at all. Knowledge makes you powerful, but the questionable stance of ‘knowing-it-all’ regime, usually leads to unprecedented wars.
Nothing can exist before it comes out of the womb. Of the earth, or from the womb of my secret box.
However, the delusion of the power to be born someday, gropes the seedling and forces a masquerade over its dead face.
No eyes. With no questions
No ears. With no apprehension.
No nose. With no air to breathe.
No lips. With no lingering tastes of kisses and smoke.
No chin. No chimples.
No cheeks. No dimples.
A dead chunk of possibilities. With an invisible crown of power and pride, that deluded the “secret” to make a history.
Secrets do not know, they do not exist for the world outside.
It’s the fire within the pounding heart, the few droplets of mouth watering lip locks, his lovers’ sunlight of multiple lies, the darkness of swollen his eyes.
That. That. That.
That gives life to the secrets. The thoughts.
To come out and breathe free.
The mindless secrets –
Become the reason of your imprisonment to another soul.
– From the land of mystica