Never did I finish watching Shinsekai Yori

It’s always after I think I’ve got it all together.

It’s always the black, wispy tendrils, probing

Searching, scratching, seeking

Against what seems like a hardened barrier.

It is porous, and crumbles with their soft caress

And those gentle tendrils gleefully conquer me.


And then they’re no longer mild and wispy

They start entangling and hooking every slimy inch

Of their cold, greasy body, on the delicate little treasures,

Those that have been carefully stitched

And mended a thousand times over. A firm, slow

Strangulation is felt.


I laugh at this familiar despair. I distract myself

With the detached irony of sinking in

Waters that I’ve drowned in.

Perhaps the only way out,

Is to burn everything.

Burn imagination.

Tendrils? Fancy,




Mayhap my own hands are choking me.

I’m growing these fiends, feeding them,

Strolling in my maze of misery.

Ebb and flow,

Again it goes.


It’s always after I think I’ve got it all together.


What does art constitute? What makes a poem? Can you just string together pretty words, divided at whim– call it confounded enjambment– and let it pretentiously be?


3 thoughts on “

  1. CLaurent

    Hey, why did you make the content private? I really wanna see what you posted… specially since it’s been almost a year since the last time you wrote something in here

    1. Aleris Celt Post author

      Hello there! Haha i’m really sorry, it was something very personal and this blog has become less private than I envisaged. I hope to write more in the future, even if it’s non-anime related :)


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