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On a river of memories
I drifted again today
to a garden of roses
a green field dotted with daisies
We napped there on a blanket that I still own
(just like these memories of you)

I wish you presented
In more recent memories, too
They miss you
Like I do
originally written 28th Aug 2024
https://youtube.com/shorts/HSKGxEC6UR4?si=Rl5wd8WXHvyg1feO
All alone
by the noon,
softly humming
an old tune.

Eyes that drift
toward the moon,
air is still,
a bit too cool.

No more tools,
just quiet bloom—
a soul unfolding
in its room.
 May 6 David Cornetta
Ian
when sky dons
her sloe-sable sheath,
and gone ‘s
the luciferian vestige,

and hour
bids the tired
sleep,
and comes
forth
the gentle
breeze,

then come to me
my pallid queen,
come be with me
luna’s realm ‘neath
I am wilted. I am weary.
I am weathered. I am worn.
I am stuffed with seeping sadness, and stewed in sticky, seething scorn.

I am deflated. Thoughts debunked.
And I am drowned in desperate dread.  
When I soak my roots in water, I find it dries them out instead.

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am wilted. I am worn.
This has many versions. This is the pillar.
There are few absolutes.
Even less that speak as true,
To the golden hues of bygone ages
Or savage whirlpools of our youth.
We were born and we shall die
Shackled to these certainties
Eternal pirouettes of life.
Yet in the doubt we are alive,
A parable of the possible,
The probable or the just might.
Existence in the absence
Between two points of light.
In the uncertain we survive,
A ripple in the darkness,
A dream within the night.
If i would meet a Genie
On a parched and dusty road,
Found down upon his luck
With wishes to be sold.
Well,
Just one,
If truth be told.
Rattling around the lamp
Unkempt, rusted, and old.

I would trade all my tomorrows
To take away your pain and sorrow.

So I turn out all my pockets,
Gifts of silver, lint and gold.
Promises of future earnings
Whatever I shall own.
Offers of the occult.
Blood, shadow and bone.
The sum of all my dreams,
The deed to my rugged soul.
We court our own defeat.
Aqua Regia in our cups
Hubris curled up at our feet.
The throne is a fickle thing,
Jesters are sequestered
By whims of alabaster
Rose crowned Queens.

The King is an utter fool,
Barons are not your friend.
The Joker always finds
The dungeon in the end.
Oubliettes of our own design,
Gossamer wrought chains
Webs spun within our minds.

— The End —