syniram: TARDIS (Default)
syniram ([personal profile] syniram) wrote2016-03-19 04:27 pm


Put pen to paper, let the rhythm flow out of you,
blood on the parchment,
soaked up like ink would be,
if we wrote in that lesser medium,
like mere mortals did.

But poets and writers are no men.
To say so would belie their dreams, their visions.
For what dreams may come to those with
ears attuned to otherworldly echoes?

The heart beats, drums,
pounds its fists against the body's door,
trapped in soma,
trapped in mortal coils
winding tight to strangle in their python grasp all hope.

But still, despite encroaching darkness,
echo forth the aspirations of souls--
not bound by skin, by flesh,
by all those small boundaries
of life and death and truth and lie---
of fantasy, unfettered.