The writings of Hunter Coch

Poem: The Lost

Within the air
Are the things that swim and sing and shine,
They look down to see the monkey people
Playing and piddling and tossing there feces.

On top of the mountain
Are the gods of old and fallen civilizations,
Looking down on the now civilized
Seeing not but barbarian hordes.

Deep under the sea
Are the barren lands of alien races,
High above waits death in nets
So the deep ones wait in slumber below.

Into the flames
Are the pixies of Madness the rise to the heights of holy songs,
Mania burns the memories of old
Knowledge not but ash.

Being the ether
Are the sights of lost and homeless beings,
Sitting in the sacred mists
Eternal timelessness and empty perception.

To be lost is to be free.

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