Aug 17, 2009


Inside the doors of a deserted mind
Under the cobwebs
Behind the scuttling of mice

The slide of a tongue
The stop of a life unknown

The source of a pattern draws near
Pulses weave and make clear

A web of solitude
But there is a presence
Like a spider hiding in a stomach

The hall extends ahead of me
The corridor narrows rapidly
The limb slams down from deep disturbance
The tentacles grab me and interrogate

From coils and from madness and Seclusion
Of solitude, impurity and delusion
It gives to me 7 words that it hisses

"To your pulse come forth from withering"

The Music That Helped

The Paper Chase - I'm Going To Heaven
Artis Quartett Wein - Webern: Langsamer Satz
Artis Quartett Wein - Webern: String Quartet

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