Freedom

I'm throwing my simple-mindedness away. It grew to be indistinguishable from vacancy. From absence. And the absence yesterday determined the end. The tides are lapping away, at the world's end, and as the literal loses its rigor, so too must the tides of opinion, turning and lapping, falling and fading, overlapping, causing the mind to break this way and then that, the fall at the cliff's mouth mirrored by the cool green at the failed equinox, as if one viewed these providential happenings clued with a translation that only the spirit of reckless enterprise can fabricate as it comes to possess the vacancy of its false dawn, the spectrum charged with a simulacrum of things, and beings, yes - the clutter changing, the crimp shortening, the hackneyed tongue falling away like words, but rising above the hollowed moans in a ludic and eventful sense-atrium of its own the breath of acrid moss on buttered knives, turning the play of the mind away from spirit pressed with flesh alert to death, arising next in artful ardor lest it let the last blade bleed it best, but above song or duty with their grave emroiderings reigns the memory of artichokes! and thus we pulse away, the moon is let fall, the pang pulverized.

Of vacancy, there are many forms...