Nos cris perdus dans le vent
qui comme le temps file ;
Nos ripostes dissipées dans la brume
des souvenirs évanouis ;
L’histoire se répète malgré les présages ;
Nul n’a su faire marche en pas chassés.
La jeunesse dans l’élan de son ignorance,
La sagesse dans la mollesse de ses membres;
Nos leçons sont diffuses et égarées -
Nous n’apprenons pas même à la dure
cette notion des cycles trop répétés.
Même de cette vue depuis la cime,
Les doigts de nos poings demeurent liés.
Et comme nos cris perdus dans le vent
qui comme le temps file,
Nous dirons que nous vécûmes alors
Ce qu’aujourd’hui ne saurait décrire.
Que nous regardons le monde désormais
D'un regard que l'on n'aurait pas su nous prédire.
Nous ne sommes pas les mêmes;
Ces cris furent un murmure hélas perdu à jamais,
Qui nous revient en langage des signes,
Qui nous étourdit comme un reflet,
Mais qui trouve écho et retentira
Dans l'innocence que l'on précède.
Feb 6, 2025
Feb 6, 2025 at 5:43 PM UTC
It happens with all the holes and wounds: they grow their own face, mend their gap, heal their rifts - those new skills of yours are but entities that emerge: to give shelter, to stand guard, replace the old, thicken the crust, weather this human storm - through and through.
But will the skin ever return to its soil? It linger on forevermore.
How tight is its grip? How hardened its sappy brooks? When will it nourish those delicate roots anew?
These thoughts arise as doubt breaks free. It pours and flows as I gaze down and lower still. Shadows seep and leak as the wheel spins and drills the soul evermore hollow. Anonymous is our tree of life, but it keeps faces in store.
For it happens with all the holes and wounds: they bleed, they mend, they heal - and what don't they do as I stand here, as I bend, as I kneel - as I carve their seats in shapes of departure. These skills thicken under my feet like growling tremors.
My past was but a dream - ready to slide and crumble like a leaf.
My weariness is universal. My knowledge, heavy. There cannot be a conclusion. I am growing thin.
Let me feed those roots anew.
Jan 23, 2025
Jan 23, 2025 at 9:00 PM UTC
Paved roads of cars that roam
Are sure to grow weary on my bones.
And there’s a high hill close to home
Onto which I seldom venture alone.
How I recall those many days of yore
When we’d go fresh out in the morn;
And up that hill now far across the globe
Would stare for short eons into the fog.
Jan 22, 2025
Jan 22, 2025 at 8:05 PM UTC
Oh I see it all too clear
How we fail to name life
In motions of escape
By the dictates of fear
Jan 22, 2025
Jan 22, 2025 at 11:58 AM UTC
With the wind on my face,
I'm walking home.
I'm walking home
On my own,
On my own.
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 5:43 PM UTC
How to explain (non)sense
With(out) common sense?
Just/not like that.
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 5:35 PM UTC
If you walk, you slip
If you stop, you stall
If you touch, you stick
If you drop, you fall
In the eternal,
In the eternal now.
If you give, you take
If you kneel, you bow
If you dream, you wake,
If you seek, you doubt,
And when night shadows blend
With the light of the dawn
Remember to forget
That you've come to depart
In the eternal,
In the eternal now.
Oct 29, 2024
Oct 29, 2024 at 7:04 PM UTC
It happens with all the holes and wounds: they grow their own face, mend their gaps, heal their rifts — those new skills of yours are but entities that emerge: to grant shelter, to stand guard, replace the old, thicken the crust, weather this human storm — through and through.
But will the skin ever return to its soil? It linger on forevermore. How tight its grip? How hardened its sappy brooks? When will it nourish those delicate roots anew?
These thoughts arise as doubt breaks free. It pours and flows as I gaze down and lower still. Shadows seep and leak as the wheel spins and drills the soul evermore hollow. Anonymous is our tree of life, but it keeps faces in store.
For it happens with all the holes and wounds: they bleed, they mend, they heal — and what don't they do as I stand here, as I bend, as I kneel — as I carve these seats in shapes of departure. Those skills thicken under my feet like growling tremors.
My past was but a dream — and I'm ready to slide like a crumbling leaf. My weariness is universal. My knowledge heavy. There cannot be a conclusion. I am growing thin.
Let me feed those roots anew.
Through and through.
Dec 23, 2023
Dec 23, 2023 at 2:30 PM UTC
It is as if I were
Truly, marching, numb,
Blind despite standing
On a pillar above the sun,
Bathing in an ocean of
Clarity, clean, dumb
A kind of understanding
Or a stellar love, a unison
Dripping in slow-motion.
It is as if I were
Well fastened to a past
Faint, absent, steady,
Found elsewhere once more,
Begrudgingly opaque,
As sequestered and cast
Paint spent uneasily
Around canvases ashore,
Erosionally awake.
It is as if I were
On the verge now,
Ready to step onward,
Dare, envision, try,
If but for a moment
In an urge somehow
To unravel the skies afar
Care, abandon, fly,
And not ever lament:
It is as if I were.
Jul 15, 2023
Jul 15, 2023 at 11:48 PM UTC
There will certainly be
A great many of them
Far readier than I’ll ever be
O blessed unborn one
Yet endowed with inexistence
To whom mercy shall slip from
And re-emerge in its awakening
Beings past or below my shrinking age
A great many among them
Whom I once did or shan’t collide
Beyond the captured scope of mutual days
To relate to you what high events
Unrolled before our common eyes
Folks granted with the privilege
Promoted to the status of witnesses
Historians, athletes and prophets
By themselves and their narratives
I let them unroll their good accounts
Forfeit their tales of what must be bound
To mould your unsuspecting
Circumspect mind and
Save you from sensing
Delicately sensing
Voices that once knew more
Than in haste speak
Than with haste carry
Daringly could the silence hear
Untangle the mumbling tango
Of the vociferous crystal parade
My darling unborn one
The tortuous path out of the forgings
Of reason almighty, the ventricular beast
Played and echoed in loops and on repeat
No, you shan’t feast on their hymns
Yours is meant for the engineering of belief
In something further, of glory,
Far more, furthermore,
Something extraordinary
Than the days of days
And the knowns of knowns
And to lodge firmly out of the stillness
That’s woven in the heart of your chanting storm
And in the precipice of the forecast
May you never come to designate
But the space between the notes
So that when it comes not to ever pass
We shall rejoice in the untold absence
That binds us as if pierced by an arrow
While we ask about the bow
Jun 24, 2023
Jun 24, 2023 at 6:26 PM UTC