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In the void there is peace.

By Stephen Sheehan

The pursuit.

restless ideals are stalked until the hunter exhausts

hunters are hunted by desires


consumed by thoughts

Without noise the wings of the heart flutter

drowning in fresh air

Legs cramping

grip loosens and we fall.

A world without memory resides.


We have died.

As and when you are doing something, it does not mean you are doing something. An escape reveals itself in many forms.

A chameleon disguised a chameleon whisper into the holes of the wall.

Echoes are echoed and echoed and echoed and echoed.

And echoed. Once more.

There is a chase that does not need to be chased. However, there is a pressure building that pushes the pursuit. Yet there is no time to settle.

To rest.

It all appears to be a blur.

Since the death of God, everything has died.

The executioners have yet to realise that their demise is disguised as a spiralling compilation of whispered toils.

Aimed to inspire and raise the pigeon from the street to the moon.

“You have to suffer to achieve” shouts the buffooned baboon, slowly suffocating within a self-made womb turned tomb.

The preach; the elegant construct constructed for the wanting.

The desperate for place, including the preacher.

Knowledge obtained upon the grunts of the suffering,

who encourage participation in the vice.

Not to offer an escape for the searching,

more a gentle holding of hands within a furnace

ignited by the waggles of flapling gums and tap-dancing teeth.

Since God has died, preachers have attempted to replace God with themselves.

Everyone wants to be God.

Everyone wants to be God.

Everyone wants to be God.

To replace the warm sun, illuminate the sky with an artificial hue

Chisel down mountains and rebuild mountains with fragmented rubble.

An invisible purpose; weighted matter that can be felt in soft palms

seeping through

felt at the side of phalanges wrapped in fragile silk

Gentle, as it is

Everything is balanced within a very small glass.

Swishing from side to side, carried over loose cobbles.

Awaiting. Anticipating. Expecting.

Every drop, a century disappears onto polished silver.

A harsh bitter metallic twang embeds its essence deep upon the palette of those who slurp from the tray.

I sit alone at night, down stairs on a seat, and ponder the next day and what it may hold for me.

Whatever it is,

Whatever is being chased, is only being chased in the pursuit. I have decided, to let it be free. And, within that speckle of dust, I am free.

Detached from the pursuit. The urge to pursue is no longer alive. I am content as a wandering being, and not the artefact that the ideal of the pursuit, had me be. Many instances occur within a speckle of dust, encapsulated moments cascading towards oblivion. Desperation attempts to harvest those speckles within rays of light before they fall onto the cloth below.

Unwittingly observed.

Existence falls before our eyes.

We never reach out.

To capture

What is it, that we are doing?

Effortlessly with effort,

galloping like powerful stallions across the American desert,

The image of the dream

Only the stallions are stallions

Their skin dyed burnt red from the falling dust

It all appears to be a blur.

everything has died.

in the void there is peace.

It is beautiful in the void

I never knew it existed


the idea of me

went beyond the physicality of me

went beyond the concept of me

held by me.

in the void there is peace.

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