Poetry, writing, & More
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Beneath your feet are temples, tombs; valleys, mounds and ash
You may make a home here, for a while, ‘fore this path becomes a river
Looked down on our simple limbs and aging joints
They're strong enough still to hold a pint
A winners hand, needs boon and bust, and crowds to carry on
A sun to rise and nights to fade, headaches to sing their song
Pick my skin 'til it's leather
Or at least a little thicker
Each day, for the glass, I reach a little quicker
You've spent so long fighting, you can't recognise someone lockstep beside you
You can only assume they're the shadow of your next adversary
See I met my mark, left bloody rust on the boards, spat my lines.
An ode to collaboration.
I believe our greatest trait is adaptability to strange times
This world is now so far removed from stone, water and fire
Yet we flourish, thrive and achieve the impossible and again
This is still life. High contrast.
It is hubris to search for secrets not worth knowing
or to attempt in conquering timeless force
Far back in history, we built great machines. Boulevards, towers, and factories to pull humanity from the dirt and lift it to the stars. Gradually at first, but then faster and faster, accelerating to the point of whiplash. The body broke while progress continued onward. Always better, always further.
And this is the world you stand in now. A world built for you.
But one you do not belong in.
“All preventable, all foreseen, yet perhaps all inevitable.”
Something different for me: I’ve written a piece musing on themes taken from the film ‘Dead Man’s Letters’. A 1986 Soviet post-apocalyptic drama directed by Konstantin Lopushansky.
We often look to children as beacons of innocence and, against our best interests, ignorance. Believing that they can’t possibly understand the world and have yet to learn their place in it. Are we wrong?
Lining the walls hung the skulls of creatures long forgotten, their gaze meeting mine.
I recognized some, silhouettes that traced a line to memories of photographs that I marveled at as a child. Others could very well be other worldly in their origin, their shapes giving little hint to function or behaviour.
Mighty beasts of ancient stature stalk the halls, their forms comprised of designs ever fluctuating.
By the light of one room the bust of a lion may perch upon the carapace of a crustacean born from the depths.
Yet by the glow of a dying candle may glint fangs of a wolf protruding from the bulk of a boar.
Only the eyes would suggest these creatures were one in the same.
Dark voids ever famished.
My feet don’t travel so my mind does, with little regard or respect for what surrounds it….
Starting some quick daily writing for practice:
A hollow glance to the left. I believe for a second that I am aware. But straight back to my reflection. Do I actually meet people’s gaze? Or do I just catch my own in the mirror….
Shift your depth of field to distant horizon
My blurred skin, words and limbs left lifeless