![Hyperborean.png](https://steemitimages.com/DQmVpigBzXXBZYshdYMxmT8yZK4RYDpAQshN2Yi8FWNVghm/Hyperborean.png)

Hyperborean

The world we live in is a distorted projection, this moment, naught but a polaroid dream, fires dancing at the edges, ink collapsing in on itself. These streets have melted bad acid lust visions, abandoned shopping cart homes, deep inner-city arm infections and other various tripping hazards. Resolved, we residentially meander, keep our heads firmly fixed to glass floors shattering florescent, the crunching of our boots grace the bent forms of those beneath, finger-painting cragged gravel surfaces opaque with their pupils, filling potholes with Sisyphean shortcomings. Hammer-handed, delusional, needle-minded and insecure, we turn our heads towards the sun, bleach the pale expanse of our sight. We construct these hyperboreal steel escapes ever higher, high enough to puncture the heavens; we know perfection does not lie naked, pallid beside us under thousand count satin blankets. Perfection does not lash morning's anemic figure with languid nine-tail eyes - punish her for violating a restraining order, crossing closed borders: these heavy curtains sole purpose: keeping strangers out torn aside and bloodied in this storm of light; our clothes lay scattered around the altar, cast off and discarded for the next life.

As Below, So Above

"Perfection," the dawn mused, "perfection lies in the unreachable." We stretch out the length of our bonds like aroused house cats, rattle the foundation till we loosen the bolts just enough to overextend ourselves; rub elevator gears with Vaseline, arrange what's left of the dust energetically and meticulously, perfectly straight lines; blow everything so high, even steel buildings get nosebleeds. So damn high we pierce the heavens, rain the whole sky dry; restart, humidify and breathe deep the dreams of a narcotic sleep.

Exalted, A Mouth Full of Flies

Our skin arid and cracking the toll of dry conversations held over three course dinners beneath mirrored ceilings polished to focal points; the crests of sand dunes, wasted days and wasted praise of meaningless three ways sprawling across the beaches where no one sleeps and no one wakes and nothing you do ever matters. I remove a pack of gold, hotel-crest trimmed crimson, from my match collection, a footstool to grab a white shine jar of light from the shelf of my shed, light sticks of incense and watch as the air smolders, warps, and burns; hold the match stick still as my thumbprint is branded glass. Put a scent to darkness and am forever marked by my awareness.

Thinking Makes It So

Every message conceals claustrophobic spirals trying to escape, an imprint, a unique tattoo accepted unto our being; roll the heads down the stairs, hold our daggers high; we are nothing but a single instant, a distorted projection of everything and everyone we never loved. Woe the forgotten man, remembered only for being forgotten; a pure, untainted, lobotomized canvas decorated with spoiled milk. Preach to the tired, the poor, the huddled and the yearning! 'Cast aside Demons, my friend! Cast aside all spiritual rubbish! Overturn the lottery ticket wheelbarrows, drain pensions wasted in whiskey shots and The American Dream!' because we can. ![z_divider'.png](https://steemitimages.com/DQmdncLrUJvMhG9oi8dBCzYixu4nF59BskKx9pifY2zQAMR/z_divider'.png) _{I dream of a world that does not exist.
I write about a world that does.
I am because I think I am.
I dream because I am not.} _{written in line with @rensoul17's The Writing Impact Challenge} _{words used: dreams, fire, breathe, vision, reach, remember} _{also, @uniwhisp's call for Songs of Sadness.} _{thank you for the read
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