to places. been

there is a god who flickers mirages for me in the small aperture of what i have seen, what i have touched, and what i have learned. in unreality, i know how it is all meant to be, the was and the is, but i cannot comprehend it. like an amateur, i am far from a prophet: i have killed and will keep killing.

it is me who has killed the future for myself. i pace around the garden's past and snap its illusion of change, i worship it. i kiss it like i bite into an apple until the crowns loosens out from its sockets. until the only words i can utter is why, why, why.