Echoes of Perception

Psychedelic swirls, words bleeding into nonsense.
I need to see a thing about a guy –
was his name God, or was it just the sky?

In the beginning,
before the teeth of darkness
gnawed the world to bone,
there was…what? A whisper, a wrong turn,
a star swallowed by its own light?

Here's an idea. Lovely, lovely,
a kaleidoscope of fractured sight

Be quiet, listen. Be yourself?
But the self is a shattered mirror,
and beyond the stars lies only
more stars, and the yawning, hungry void.

Scars, a roadmap of what never was.

Chris Daughtry's voice, warped,
familiar as a half-remembered dream.
The stories you tell yourself –
a moth circling a flame,
mistaking it for love, for truth.

Crashing in like waves, or was it wings,
or was it his hands, his eyes,
all those echoes of a name…

Honest and pure? A ghost in a fading photo.
Can I have this dance, even knowing
the floor will vanish, and we'll
tumble into the beautiful,
meaningless dark?