words

i can smell the change in the air
and i fear its coming,
the strangeness of it
arriving before the thing itself,
pressing its stigmata upon all sight,
pulling the light from sundowns
and turning it a pale alien blue,
something unseen in this life
and unwelcome.

write this feeling down,
record it among the pillars
of all history
and above all worship its incantation
no matter the form it has assumed,
this ritual of heathen sacrifice
must be repeated in order to be whole,
they will know if you do not,
they will see.

the head has become a prison,
its inner walls covered with the scrawled inanity
of countless maniacs
and their dead logic,
their false reason,
their empty markings now etched
into the universe itself,
unsold to any who would dare purchase
those words of wildness
forever preserved
among the metamorphic heart of life,
the beating requisite of space,
a celestial phenomenon without origin
or destination
but indisputable in the manner of having been,
the aggregate incomplete
without its brief bright moment,
pulsating there for none to see
but those with the right eyes.

-S.C. Martinez