Pale tender gods

This raging superstition has me taken
this mad fellowship turns on
thick closets hides the urn

Friendships turned to ashes
like the pristine wilderness
it revels in its glory

Could not deny inner recesses
could not discover true meanings
were blasted through the ceiling

As if we had no choice
but to believe strange fictions
none of this comes about easily

Could not deny the wants of the eyes
could not see through the maddening fury
could not discover true meanings

But were taken and led on
by glorious fictions
as if we had no choice but to believe

Could not tell about circumstances
from a blink of an eye
there is friendship among the gods

These distant races
seen from behind
to glorious to behold

These mad places
unwelcomed hostages
could divert their attention for a second

This mad intelligence rages on
we are on for the show
truth-telling became easy

Not to tell of the races
fictitious entities
hiding in a closet

About Emil Hjort

Writer, poet and mysticist.
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