Fractal Infinities

In the background static 

fractal infinities buzz and thrum

as time bent through the senses

of others, seen through the eyes of above

looking down on lives as they live themselves

throughout our many incarnations, 

unearthing surprise whenever reality binds 

to some semblance of recognition,

as even the solace of memory

distorts in the weft of years— 

bringing together the lurching tears 

that split this mind as it tries to weave 

the movements of a world 

into itself:

seeking omens marked by truth 

he finds himself, dredged up on stone

caught between the vibrant 

and monochrome oaths, 

stratified ripples of carboniferous grit 

marking this moment in time—

a braille trail of sediment washed up

and deposited beneath the glacial flow

of ages long buried, alongside ribs of quartz

glimmering like stars in the expanse

of directionless wander

from self to self,

and so I am caught

looking back at one looking forward, I wonder

can he see me, reborn after this death:

not as the mystic he sought, but still

disrupting his bond with the hooded one

who, drunk on his maddening fumes

wheels and turns the vices tight

to bridge unspeakable canyons,  

or otherwise hides from the ravens eyes 

in caves of his own making

(though made by the one who made him,

who he continues to make)

as these moments spiral in and out

of the absolute sincere; becoming solution

spilling over the edges of his dreaming—

clear like flames from the burning bowels,

and he sees them lick the blood beneath his skin;

simply put

there is a whole universe within,

but the imagined other is no more still

than this twisting melange of ashes kicking life

out of his bumping bedrock.

Out in the expanse

he is hung frozen from these edgeless edges

created by Gods to serve as friction for the wind,

unwinding him into the nameless

embrace of sin as it threads itself through

a thousand faces staring back at him,

searching for a place to seat themselves

but one taking precedence above all else

as the form by which he knows how best to act:

the void he was given when the tiger

took his share—

I see him floating there 

looking down, searching

in the stone clad mountain towns 

and twisted hills of gentle rolling green

for words to purge a path towards his future,

and I seem to stretch a hand across 

this gap in time, between worlds  

where the bones are laid out piled and steady

in a brine of blood, all ready to catch his fall— 

and I wish I could tell him that the further he flies

from fact, the closer he gets to the truth of it all, 

but:

with his self abuse intact

he navigates deeper into the fray

and plays himself

the only way he knows 

—a splintered soul

caught between cells

creating a world in the image

of one who taught him 

how to be the silence he bleeds.