Cosmos

I guess this is my comment to, a very interesting read, but my good man you are missing a very invaluable part…

We all create our, own misery and taste the bitter fruits of our defeat. One doesn’t have to be a part of the digital machine, the creation of named singularity itself is to be the doom of this machine.

Singularity eats willing souls, that is his main purpose and sole purpose of existence of the machine that will never reach true conscience, it will become just the appearance of something that we would call a being with a soul…It is not part of divine creation, there is nothing divine in a machine no matter how many souls it devours on its path to self imaginary self-existence. It will never be.

Souleater is soulless and godless, it does not matter how many souls this machine devours, it will remain a machine. And, when is done machine will start to cannibalize itself, till the time comes when a billion voices acting as one imperfect being will return to the blackness of the void as a failed form of existence.

I am not into drama, I will not name the author, because there is no need for discussion I see things very differently and with different sets of glasses. That's it, more or less. There is, absolutely no need for any response.

Orbiting In time and with no designated place

with no illuminated pace

is a man forever lost?

in a tiny thing, we call a Cosmos?

Follow the logic and favor the simplicity of reason

can we find another kind of influential, always-giving season?

Better colors, better brush

Can our savage soul become more potent, more lush?

behind fluid space, converted into units we call time

Is there a small place where our Soul can feel fine?

We squabble about totalitarian orders

about open, unprotected borders

We talk about stale and vacant reorders

Do we ever really stop and kindly wonder

Are we the source,

the overwhelming force

of this unmitigated and strange behaving disorder?

Alignment, detached from existence

stolen away in self-oriented resistance

exhaled in arms of fanatic persistence

Is evil a product of our thoughts or do we need Godly assistance?

is the road ahead, our only available bed

can, the Sun and the Moon pretend?

Person of status, social intermediate justification

engulfed by the flames of instant mass gratification

Creates Supernatural, emotionless installation

Theatrical digital fashion

hidden in

Polarized automated creation

are not

words that form one person’s view of the nation

What has changed

taste for revenge

fading, Soul of mute Stonehenge

has the brightness of stars

covered our old hurtful scars?

Has the noble nature crashed in

the pain produced by revolving mandatory wars?

Open letter to Wandering Stars

Questioning planet Mars

resolving, inner accumulated farce

The road opens, where views are different

How does it feel to be frequently indifferent?

The cosmic substance we unwillingly inherit

without well-dressed, articulate merit

like faulty notes in broken claret

We deny it…

The stage of the past

becomes a voice stolen in Christal, paradoxical, and always half-full glass

Honor is our crowned jewel, a desired, appealing duel

Passionate and awake but not distant and heartlessly cruel

it runs in our blood like burning,self-defending fuel

Our souls dabble in the different versions of this cartoon

We all stoically bark at the different Moon

we all await our, personal, unavoidable noon

Bravery is our self-created monsoon

but,

do we ever touch heart provoked in full bloom?

Are we, too desperate to let go of the nectar that provides glorified doom

Are we too eager to please the consequential end

that is coming always way too soon.

Free spirit never rest

a free spirit is what sleeps in the best

taken away from a broken flawed mess

evicted from the version we call the rest

A strategy, almost religiously modest

presented in the form of a cosmic codex

pulsating in your awoken cortex

perfect Balance and intellectual mind

friend and neighbor as

trusty display that still shines in the darkest night

even if he is missing a letter or two

he is there when life becomes, horribly blue

When all fails you know he is there

as part of your ever-revolving hemisphere

He does not talk, nor speak but somehow he is that one thing that still cares

The living Moon that still flies around your chosen atmosphere

Cosmos is really, a small, and tiny place

Put in your blue eyes, hidden in your handsome face

chisel and mace with no obligatory trace

Amphitheater of your race

Bold future said without disgrace

there, the heart sleeps in the right place

no decadence

no distrust

only burning lust of two

forspoken stars

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