pneumaflakes-v-xix-xx

    there’s then a rummaging conflagration even i never knew of—an entity that came to its best effulgence just exactly on hour its pacified bastille has collapsed. perhaps every soul holds forsooth a torch and oil in their depths; mine just ignited a blaze beyond what i needed and could handle the moment twas blitzed in oil the wrong time along with the pitch-black corner i failed to conquer. its refusal to lighten up the darkness—the beginning and the root—resulted to radiance i never wanted; it began rewriting my mind palace to dust. my trove of chronicles between sanity and insanity were reborn then visibly only to be muddled and stifled, i lost touch of each and its pages were thrown to disarray amidst smoke in grey and white.

    if each of our torch is produced by radical recollection of balanced digits in embers of dreams and nightmares to incarnate the fire that sets spice in mortals, perhaps mine had the latter exceeding for a tomfoolery that was committed in fear of not death but life—the unknown and peculiar version—arose the moxie of fragments of nightmare coals; my torch is no longer one that is supposed to illuminate my psyche in amber, nor will it be the match for a blue bonfire; it destructs it now to ashes, fined and powdered to grey and white.

    neither steeling nor suffusion of the bastille by now is exactly effective. both would glide down as foolish futile attempt to survive—for naught. morphemes and graphemes that built the metal warden for the gruesome conflagration were simply melted down ironically not by boiled sea of conflicts but by the holder of the torch; cowardly solely meant for umbra of its own property. the failure to form the construal imperative before the acceptance of oneself cemented the epilogue in which the holder of the torch is eternally flared up, embraced by the inferno of misunderstood murk. oh, may my cremation become a creation of crystallized particles, tantalizing in grey and white.