There are times when I step away,
from the fleeting march of this life,
and fall into the woods of the Deep,
a country of clinging fog.
Beyond that step is
the hollow within the eye of a crestfallen artist.
The walls are made from the thing of dreams,
marble-wet with sinful thought,
shimmering with unattainable dreams,
ephemeral as foolish fantasies of brilliant children,
as permanent as the lodestone for the world of
the withered consciousness that aspire to a world beyond sight.
Here, we are but a transient presence,
so fragile that a tired sigh
could obliterate your consciousness.
Be thankful that form doesn’t follow purpose –
this place does away with such simple existence,
this Fomorian Library,
this first Garden of Snakes,
this Twisted Root of the World,
the Records of Cosmological Purpose that perpetuate stagnation.
The door is open to those who seek,
but all who arrive know there are no doors,
only gaping wounds in our memory
that remind us we were here.
For we must give something for our trespasses to be forgiven.
loathing that which chains us forever to a material construct.
So I wonder, wiping away memory
clinging like a cold sweat,
did I come to find or do I seek to be found?
Am I the librarian,
The Dark gaps in my memory seem to speak,
Pray for ignorance,
and so I close my eyes again,
and try to remember,
so that I may forget.