AMKent books

Garnished in so much, all this splendour for a soulless ornament. Saints that swell in light, rays that filter the sun into something divine, more pure against the stone. Robes curl and whip across figures deemed significant. Glass fractals and geometry galore with primary colour backdrops, lined with chessboard mirage and bleeding stains. The windows in the house of breath, the light that enters through the riddle of holy material. Yet, my fingertips dig into my palm and my fists press against the dead wooden bench, I cannot find you. Again, I ask you to lead me, throw your wing so that I may soar, drop a feather so I know you have considered it. Nothing, purgatory of acknowledgement, empty silence and a God who is a mute. I do not want to be teased into faith, or make my mind a gymnast, I want you to obliterate me. I see no grovelling and blessing, I want to be cast asunder by the architect of infinity. It goes against all we think we know about you to dare to ask this, but I demand that if you are truly settled in the funnel of silk cosmos, that you bite rather than stalk through an infinite void. You beget, so, give me the honour of seeing you beget once more, not vicariously but by your own autonomy. A magician never reveals his secrets, and is that what you are? A magician? If that is all I am, some convincing trick, then I demand the prestige. If I could find you, I would drag my nails down the fabric of your garments, I would make you account for my time being lost. You have lost me, I have not lost you, I am the child to you, and no competent parent lets their child loose into a vague constructing ecosystem with nothing more than their myth. I do not look at the deluded semi-cohesion of this planet and see design, that is not proof. What is your expanding infinite if humans are a Magnus Opus? Have you placed the tree of knowledge so far from us now? Obscured ingredients in an existence that is not edible to anything other than itself.Auto-sarchography, creation written only for itself. What defines you from the tribalism that spawned your inception? You are more than a totem God, monolithic as no other is worthy, one throne seated in the mass of the incomprehensible to anything other than you. My life ends linear and outraged, yours does not. I require the virtue of patience, you do not, I need faith that you are real, you do not. We are a dichotomy then, you and I, you created all with a spoken word, a metaphysical linguist, I challenge you with that very tongue. language against Logos, you say your art is intention, and I say it is indifference. You made the life of each human an account, and I shall hold you accountable.