Live from the dungeon 

The dungeon, that is my mind

My mind, in line, with the wave-lenghth

The wave-length, that siphons

Siphons, the golden thread

The golden thread, that binds

That binds, me, to my creative side

My creative side, fuels my inner architect.

My inner-architect, fine-tuning the foundation

The foundation, of what will be

What will be? my reality

What will be my reality, besides my dreams?

Besides my dreams, what makes me move?

Makes me move

Move, like a clan of sleepwalkers

Like a clan of sleepwalkers, My dreams,

My dreams, are what propel me 

Propel me, Forward,

Forward, into the future.

Into the future, I already am

I already am, as you read this

You read this, as I plan what to do next

What to do next, besides write?

– Original-Dante ©2016

Art by: cosmicbound





No weapon formed shall ever prosper,

Words, you re-design and hurl my way

Are the virtual equivalent of sand grains

Trying to pierce my golden armor.

My transfiguration entails

That I light the darkest side of the moon

While you,  say all you can

Behind the skirts of your puppet master;

Consider it a curtain yet to close

On your otherwise shallow act.

An act I let play on

Noting how much it means to you

As rubbing it out would leave you empty

With no identity,

Without a role

I.e. without purpose

As part of the collective consciousness

You’d expect us to work together

Since we’re but fragments

Of a bigger whole,

A bigger whole, that is, in essence

Experiencing itself.

To save myself the act

Of having to fry the filament in your light bulb

With a dialect that makes little sense to you

I retract the idea of your existence

From my pocket dimension,

Leaving one of us tormented

With the idea of the other.

– Original-Dante ©2016

Art by: Ov3RMinD




His biggest mistake,

Was never learning,

From one.

– Original-Dante ©2016

Photograph by: ucilito

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