The Dead Dreamer
We rattle about in vain,
thrall to the corpse-mind.
Our conscripted, rotting God,
serenely hanging in darkest burning night—
wreathed in greater ruin.
Dead eyes imagined dreaded life
on worlds without number.
Wherling black fate at the center of all,
it begins:
all that is known and remembered.
Unwalked paths etched in black granite.
Creation from prediction, the folds of this mind,
bearer of all that is.
Life to thought
so that ideas may become bubbling flesh.
For one to know all
is for all to be one.
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