Demiurge

Nov 16, 2024
1 min read

Updated: Jan 17

Writing writing writing

just notes

staff and sheet

Dead as they meet the page

That words are a prison

a melody's mold

Why then the need?

To build babel again and again

To what heaven aspires these corpses' eyes?

What manner a faith that refuses its grave?

Perhaps bodies were always flawed vessels for light

Made to be fuel, and burned up

Maybe love is to give flesh just the same

To breathe dance into dust from one's own

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