An Act of Circus within A Jar of Tides

An Act of Circus within A Jar of Tides

( " I'm your problem child, your matter of fact" )


 The singular only way I could comprehend the act of tearing one's own skin, is through allegories and metaphorical transversal visions of knives, tides and a heart as the boundary of tragedies


Without days went missing on papers, it'd feel like a jar trapping the ocean directly beneath the light of moon, the tides are rising higher as more distance closing, crashing into the land of volcanic rocks

The motion of tides breaking is like a raging, wild and strong-willed banging, begging to the sky and earth for a way to roam free about the waters of lakes

But, the only passage to freely roaming is through the windows

As I hear the thunder-like banging of tides, I close ears to the otherwordly dream lane, let them struck me with tunes and choirs of the grounded saints

Melancholy as it is, spared me another gesture to live on

Agonizing as it is, dries my heart out from raging motions, through the third eye that sees in a contradictory manner, undeniably harrowing, but it spares me

 

Another round of still not missing days, opens gravitating archways to a non-existing reality

Not a matter of questions, redundant to lay the railway of thoughts, I knew I'd ended up in a state of tire and bereft, while the tides still banging like a madman requesting covers from a world war nuclear offense

As the non-existing reality takes on shape, I'd have to force matters for any openings, admitting even the smallest scratch to crack, for it is demandable as long as it could drain out the salty waters and all of its banging


Then, my pair of hands, ancient instruments of mankind, grab the most shining and most silencing of steel, to tear layers of armor, to let air comes and waters out

I cut the red out, I paint on a skin-like canvas


The left out act, the only trail to release, is circus with one self and the years trapped waves

What I know as the only way in begging for useless understanding, the nothing but to lay the unseen demons

Exhibition for a garbage of wahsed up silent crimes


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