I Did

Explorations at the dawn on the greatest expanses;
Undaunted they soaked in the vastness, invested in
Where they’d often call the unknown.

These amateur pianists, who only ever wanted,
Fell, tumbling down crumbling walls, quickly
Humbled by their expertise in pressing keys, impressing keys
They lacked into constant memories, witnessing
Their own mind numbing inadequacies and crushing defeats,
When they partook in acknowledging progression’s mere meter,
Now able to see here, with a hopefulness in each breath, dreamt
Of a future, imploring for substantiations in missing capabilities,
To change anything, whilst unable to change at all.

Loving in this moment.

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When She

I watch her gladly staring
At the verdant colored night sky,
I say something, something I can’t remember,
In essence, it was supposedly along the lines
Of, “Do you know what it feels like?”
I entertained divergent possibilities
Where understanding
Was reached inside a chateau
Or maybe it had not been breached
As it seemed she couldn’t hear anything
As she had not given a reply.

It was then she turned to me
And asked, “Perchance you enjoyed
Our gregarious play with firecrackers?”

When neither of us had ever
Even purchased any.

At a loss for words
I held her close (breathing
In her favorite scent), since
I didn’t know how to tell her,
Every single time,
It had only happened
Within her gangrene memories.

Biases

The distasteful sustain
Falsified numerologies
That endlessly flirt.

With pestles and mortar,
Favored remedies are
Replaced by odious
Repugnances of tenuously
Replicated tries; unmenacingly
Crushing shriveled up petalages
Garnered by unadorned windowsills,
With withered strips of dates
Within beveled borders along
Fluted reliefs; wonders of
Precisions inside forgotten memories.

Distorted ambiguities of misdirected
Communications.


Posts That Told

She lingers in unwritten reveries,
In melancholic keys of nostalgia,
Stored in glassy skies
Of tapering biotic aromas
Of hidden wickery treats.

In defiance, she’d ignore
Guide posts on trialed
Threads of treading feats
And seditious nets
Of accidental passings
In regretful inquiries;
Inconspicuous dazes
Of suspended beams
Lost in transfigurations
Of undecipherable glows.

She could only remember
A single sign that read:
“They will always need.”

Dramatic Hand Brushes

Thunderously tumultuous rumbles whizzed in pours.
We listened to those sounds while our fingers softly crossed.
Sprinkled after showers sparkled in spectrumed ranges,
Lying on curvatures of ridged polycarbonate awnings,
You ridded off rigidly with ragged towel like cloth
Against wistful pleas of please don’t’s
As traces of those droplets evaporated.

I’d try recreating pieces
With tubular glitters
Unable to recapture
The beauty we saw.

Diminishing images
Of compositions;
Lost expressions
Of those vibrancies.

I heard you say
“Try anyway.”

But you left that day

And took
My fucking glitter.

“Try anyway.”

What We Chose

Reflections of mangled confidences
In incandescent words
Of inevitable losses
Those who sought redemption
From repudiated horrors
Of untimely hours
In muted reveries;
Vaporized voices of intangibilities.

Airtight metal doors locked;
Unresponsive to patterned codes
Of likely misconstrued rhetorics;
Of queasily relinquished prides;
In quizzical encumbrances
In unrequited diminishing vortices.

Anthropomorphically weighed physics
Of bleakly styled truths
Or exquisitely chiseled fallacies.
Where comforted comorbidities
Of mythological redundancies
And existential deities,
Salve.

Spouting extrications of love’s yearnings
Hopelessly behind those locked doors
In layered inquiries of reality, prophecies
And connected scales of measured precisions
Of ethically disapproved pursuits;
Pierced valves of barely perceived incisions.

Here’s a secret,
Morality is whatever I wanted it to be.

Prismatic Glass Parts

Step through this doorway
And you’ll find me waiting there.
Promises made
But are not fulfilled.
You didn’t know her like I did,
This argument rises
In solitary confinement
Tainted with stains
As black veins separate
Prismatic glass parts.
Dark matter lines
Coloured worlds
Of yearnings
Love, deftly tracing
This shattered illusion.
They separate slowly
Rotating, revealing,
Dispersing in microgravity.

But eventually they’ll
Reach the surface
With no force to
Keep them in orbit.
They’ll fall like rockets,
Fragments will shatter
Upon contact,
Unless they burn up first.