#writersrecite

[definegodliness]

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With a cameo by Storm Louis at the end.

Text under cut:

Vision

A new leaf unfurls, shimmering Pristine and lime green, Steadfast, and doubtless in the Mathematical perfection of nature's Origami.

Pretty little thing.

All too easily overlooked In the short lived process Of its existence, as such.

Soon, this leaf, too, will turn Dark and dull, Yet sturdy and fully functional; Anonymous among its kin, so, swallowed By the entirety that is survival.

Yet now, still,

It is a vision of purity.

I dwell on this — my incessant Yearning purity; grounds keeper home In the graveyard Of my soul, Where candlelight burns In the darkest nights So that the eulogies, collected, May remain legible.

The tomes in here contain Dust-ridden truths, I rarely revisit, But when the wind decides To leaf through their pages I cannot help but glance a bit:

Hope —

Hope is a symbiont of the dead, It grows even on ossified bones And as such it needs not my attention To remain.

I ponder this.

Were I more reckless, I would add:

"What more, virulent And constricting hope becomes When given too much time under sun; How its roots then thirst and beg; How its tendrils latch at throats and Seek to squeeze out Just one tear To nurture the only fruits it may bear; Despair And dejection."

Please do not mistake the winter hardiness Of my resignation For the rot of cynicism.

Hope, symbiont of the dead, Merely stems from the past; It is the residual waste Of a moment, captured and recognized As a timeless truth For the length of its Experience.

However, such truths rarely live on for long In us, mortal beings.

They are malformed By our defining, and analyzing When we cease to live within them, and start Remembering.

Timeless truths are better left buried.

This is why I do not pick up the pen To ruin the tome with my temporary Imaginations.

One does not disturb the soil where Once stood a rose To once more see Its petals.

One can only respectfully maintain the earth Wherein it lays buried.

A leaf unfurls, Pristine and lime green; I dare not touch it due to its fragility.

What a pretty little thing.

This is what love Means to Me.

--- 14-2-2023, M.A. Tempels ©

[crowded-empty-places]

The semantics

Of drafted misunderstandings

Are inked on juxtaposed dreams

As the poet with lidless eyes

Dreams besides you

On a highway hypnosis

Where megalomaniacal cosmologies

Run startled across the fields

The shape of triangles

Of infrared iridiscence

Upon a world that forever spins

And falls in a palette of colours

Yawning at the voice of an absence

That longs to be present

[crowded-empty-places]

I curl up

And

Crawl inside the womb of the night

Where the edges of the day

Break into the splinters

That pierce the

Eyes of tomorrow

[crowded-empty-places]

There is nothing beautiful about growing old

Your heart does not get softer

Your mind does not get sharper

Your thoughts do not get wiser

Your body does not get stronger

It's all rot and decadence

Running in your veins

Pumped by your heart

Inside the ruin of your brain

That stiches thoughts together

As if a badly knit jumper full of holes

That holds nothing more than broken memories

That flicker in the back of your eyes

Those eyes that died so long ago

[crowded-empty-places]

The shadows break under my step

Into a million shards the sea has swept

Up the mountains of stranded memories

Flooded in the opacity of featherly dreams

As dust specs that float in the morning sunbeam

That sneaked between freshly ripped curtains

By the claws that knead the guilt tasting dough

Into recycled pink anathemas of perjuries unrevealed

Or rejected epiphanies of a word made flesh

In a symbiotic agreement with the vines

That grow from your scalp

And bury their roots inaide your thoughts

Sucking them dry, leaving you thoughtless

Inside the bony prision of your skull

Where all there is happens without your consent

But for the shards of the shadows you leave behind

As blades of glass

With which you will free yourself

Inexorably

Forever

[crowded-empty-places]

You are now a shadow

Taking pictures of a full moon

And asking me what I wrote about

On the four folded paper napkin

I lied

For i did not write what was on my mind

I wrote about you

[crowded-empty-places]

Where are you

That I once met

And where am I

That you once lost

[crowded-empty-places]

I submerge

In the strawberry blonde sunset

The mindless reset

Inside the crack

Of a badly paved road

Waiting for the translucent diagonal

To awake the dormant petal

As the laughter echoes from gravestones

At the rhythm of clacking bones

Dressed as shadows

Wrapped in the decadence

Of a waxing moon