Nietzche
Bluelighter
Contingencies, indistinguishable from destinies,
Cascade gently through these veins
Quietly stirred by surreptitious winds
Borne of the gossamer webbings of ancient spiders
This sail catches wind, delicately tugging me
Wherever it may . . .
Comedies, indistinguishable from tragedies,
Written by characters for their author
Who speak the very words that you,
The reader of these very words,
Once spoke . . .
Know their fate all to well
But of their authors are ignorant . . .
Sensibles, indistinguishable from their forms,
May litter your path
Or be the crimson carpet upon which you tread your days . . .
Have you too sat in a park
On a bench admiring a chestnut tree
Whose roots, so deeply planted,
Are felt in the marrow of your bones . . ?
Realities, indistinguishable from fantasies
Can,
If you will it,
Caress and subdue your fears
Or,
Provoke and inflame your nightmares . . .
The reader, indistinguishable from the author
Who wishes the reader may
Find solace in this word now before you
And set sail on the wind
Bearing you to Byzantine shores
With the chestnut trees in full bloom
And the carpet left behind.
But perhaps none of this will come to fruition . . .
The choice now is yours
And these words now
Read . . .
Cascade gently through these veins
Quietly stirred by surreptitious winds
Borne of the gossamer webbings of ancient spiders
This sail catches wind, delicately tugging me
Wherever it may . . .
Comedies, indistinguishable from tragedies,
Written by characters for their author
Who speak the very words that you,
The reader of these very words,
Once spoke . . .
Know their fate all to well
But of their authors are ignorant . . .
Sensibles, indistinguishable from their forms,
May litter your path
Or be the crimson carpet upon which you tread your days . . .
Have you too sat in a park
On a bench admiring a chestnut tree
Whose roots, so deeply planted,
Are felt in the marrow of your bones . . ?
Realities, indistinguishable from fantasies
Can,
If you will it,
Caress and subdue your fears
Or,
Provoke and inflame your nightmares . . .
The reader, indistinguishable from the author
Who wishes the reader may
Find solace in this word now before you
And set sail on the wind
Bearing you to Byzantine shores
With the chestnut trees in full bloom
And the carpet left behind.
But perhaps none of this will come to fruition . . .
The choice now is yours
And these words now
Read . . .
