In retrospect, I should be grateful, for
Being given the chance to witness
Scribbled extensions of undeciphered labor
Where figures posed in lines of incantations
Were carved as illusory caves of historical
Hysterics on breathable skin parchments,
For I’d have never learned to transpose
The technical aspects of applying those
Specific pressures on zinc plated panels.
I should be grateful, that the time I spent
Searching for healing lines weren’t wasted
Then why is it that I feel like crying
When I think of how I’ve lost images of his faces
When I still have these lines that fill up these pages
Even while silent whispers of finally met passion’s keep calling my name?
Then the susurrus of familiar experiences soothe
In how it didn’t seem so vastly different in its birth
Of each of those misstroked hatchings.
But it was.
Can you explain
The scales that consecutively run
To those that cannot sense it.
Our vision that pales;
His, hers, and mine,
In the faces of sophists.
Then dewy inklings
Of feathered proofs lapse
By subsequent engineering
In uncounted droplets
On tympanic shields
From deciphers felt.
Breathless moments buried;
An instruction guide
Or tutorials displayed
Efface their opponents,
Dismantle then restructure,
Adjust and adapt to rules.
Wielding a knife
Is the quickest way
I’d cleanse myself
Of the mystic
Tolls you left
Like the last time
I tried to forget.
Of silhouetted contours
From hatched outlines
In mimicking craft
Forms of commanded silences
Derived from ideologies
Of Truth is Law;
Moments of momentous mementos
In destructions of unfounded wooden
Lodges with wedged in reasoning.
Enigmatic enmities of rebuttals
Of rebellious refusals reflecting
The absence of the prescribed.
Repeated bolts of heightened acuity
Fiercely quell repudiations
By irrefutable evidence
When facing the sagacious
In strikes of stark realisations
In learning reliable consistencies
Repetitive leaden defeats leading
To admittance by amicable amities
Of words blindly accepted;
Reframed as idolatry.
Screeds of inks slither
In venous pathways
On fragile rice papers
Feebly made by paupers
Who wistfully pry
For wishful tokens
Of compassion’s compromises
In the lit pathway
On hope’s flighty imaginations
Flapping in tragic
Wills of vehement longings
For real enchantments
Of magicless worlds;
Sombre realistic reminders.
God could keep his purpose.
He could take every
Expounding great nothing,
Every exonerating. restraining,
Distortion in beauty’s anamorphosis,
Evolutionary or mutation,
He could take these things
And shove it up his omniscient ass.
But this purpose
Can go fuck itself.