we believed . . . didn’t we

we believed

a dimensions apart

a world never capable

of being imagined

where all is surreal

miracles litter the way

and the middle eye

is one of manifestation

and all thoughts actualize

Alice knew not of this place

and Dorothy could not face it

and i long to taste it

as do all souls

once again

such things

as warmth and cold

exist not

and we forgot

what the absence of time feels like

haven’t we

in our now fantasy

we see through

kaleidoscope glasses

nothing is clearly defined

so we refine the illusions

with loosely gathered allusions

minds askew from reality

whatever that may be

and what do we truly believe

at our prime level

do we really understand

how to revel in joy

we branded rebels of the realm

at the helm of our consciousness

which i term my private asylum

there is a madman

standing in judgment

of things that do not matter

like the mad hatter

we pacify ourselves

with the changing of the costumes

or the parts thereof

whereof

we remain lost

tossed in the void

where we dream of a substance

we term life

which exists not

at any sustainable

measurable

accountable

capacity

where the insidious

become a ridiculous

validity

in our conformity

to the programs

that are running in our heads

and here in this limited

timid

exposure to self

we feel justified

vindicated

because we have learned

how to manipulate the delusion

coming to an inane conclusion

that we are OK

sometimes

we embrace ourselves in love

from the left hand

self condemnation and purgatory

ushered forth

from the right-mindedness

of our needs

viscerally so

and when i attempt to ask the question

“what do i know”

Truth is

if i can call it that

it is like the fat of the Lamb

up in smoke

just like David said it would be

in some Psalm or another

and my Mother

she never warned me about this

i kiss the bliss i never quite had

just like my Father, my Dad

who too yearned

to make a way

through this wilderness . . .

bless them

and the quest continues

consciousness’

and contextual fabrics

of my reality

being shredded

in my reflective examinations

the damnation of overt scrutiny

offers no solace

but for a blink of that eye

which is infected,

a Stye

blurring all perceptions

when i ponder eternity

and certainly with age

it gets no better

save when i lie

to self again

i hear the Dogs barking

would that be some sort of alarm

that the Thief has entered the gate ?

and men with undeterminable Egos

run to get their Capes

laced with a fear

and the need to show the world

we have some courage

to transform the norm

of our little selves

into Gods

i laugh at this juncture

for the tincture of truth

still burns the wound

profusely

as i contusivley observe

in my concussive state,

my own alacrity for stupidity

“Oh Quixotic One when will you get the lesson?”

so . . .

i grab my gun

loaded with subterfuge

and the deluge of reason begins

and in conclusion

i resolve this . . .

thou art my enemy,

my friend,

and the dichotomous ghost

awakens once more

and haunts my weary

tear laden soul

but i worry not

for the hole in my heart

does serve it’s purpose

alleviating the angst

i once so dearly cared about

i could simply say . .

“i don’t give a fuck”,

but that would be a confession

even my indifferent self

can not bare in the open,

the light

that transcends opposites

in my behavior

Man . . .i am still stuck

looking for a Savior

so i shout silently

that i not disturb your solemn rest

lest you are ready

for if we do chose to awaken

we must voluntarily

summarily

spit upon the graves

of who we used to be

or who you think

you may have been

for the many eons

we have slumbered

resting in an uncertain peace

and who was it that said

“the Least shall lead a nation”

and to my reasonable elation

i am cool with that

for it does appease some aspect

of this itch for

what lies beyond the door

of the horizons

we peer at

leer at

from our spat upon graves

behave the voice said

was that in my head alone

or did you hear the echo as well

of your own voice

reverberating

in the empty halls

save for pictures and visions

of fading dreams

and as much as i deliberate

about the sheer ecstasy

of total liberation

there still resides my anguish

and i ultimately surmise

but one thing

and that is . . .

the sin of it all

we believed . . . didn’t we

© 28 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

"'I' lay down my life that i may pick it up again, for 'I' have the power to do so"