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Bryce 13h
Rotate
Clack!
Rotate
Crack!

Rotate
Shhhzzck!
Rotate
Click.

Rotate
Ow!
Rotate
Wow!

Rotate
Rotate

Snap-
Out.
Bryce 1d
Is a breath,
Stuffed with coffee grind
Thirsting for milk
And never to suckle.

Is a thought,
A dream quickly awoken from;
And lost in the tenor of real,
Sighs from life

Is a light,
A shaft of gold
worth all the stars
And yet empty

Is a place,
With silent waves and screaming winds--
The ears, pierced with calculated air

Is a God,
Is a moment,
Is a place,
Is a thought,
Is a breath,

Is a time to give thanks to winter
And dance in the snow.

Is a time to kiss the trees and hug their leaves
And laugh
When their cackled, dehydrated ossicles
Ground to dust in our arms

Is a time to worship the sun between the planes of stone
And calculate the equinox online
With electrons and info

With a careful rasp
The next turn of the marble
Grates against the curve
And the Mancala track keeps what it has sown.
Bryce Oct 4
Wow
When I think of you,
As but dust
In a carbon filter
I am disgusted
In the fact
That
This is what
Was expected

And thus,
I would not be
Anything
But
Trusting
as I am,
Gush
At the thin
varnish
Of your skin

When,
Perhaps
You had found
Gladness
In a day,
Or in an
arcsecond
Of the sun

You would
Know
Nothing
In the way
That I do--

That is the curse
Of us
And thus
I make my
Words
With love.
Bryce Oct 4
I am a sojourner,
Wandering the paper-sand shores
Of pulp and rock--
Tracing the fields of ink in my mind
And following them
To the terminus of thoughts

And yet there was never a longer trail
Than the constant sound of vowels
That placed in me this solitude
And promising to

Go somewhere; see someone,
And see now--none but you.

To sail seas, searching for pearls
Across the shores of every beach
Inside the depths of chitinous chests
Hidden from the world

A jewel embeded,
Found by me

You--

You are the fire of the Greeks
You are the Pharos, of lovely beams
You are the granules beneath my feet--
The pearl I never thought I'd see

And I am an island of thought
To rest your tired storms
And pour your heavy waters here,
To wither these blackened stones

My love,

If there was no more land to fear,
These shores would hold the skies
I'd grow a garden from the sea,
And let you name it ours

Of all the mountains nestled here,
And rivers coursing high
I'd have their shadows take to thee,
And in these passing hours--

When all the words are written,
And all the hymns are sung
As long as there is air to breathe
I'd say you are my love
Bryce Sep 25
Could you dive
From the 29th floor of a building
Into the waters
And survive?
Bryce Sep 25
Even now,

The lone pine
Stretched its dry roots
And gentle,
embraces
the lime
Of rock,

This sky gives me no comfort,
A fallow plain
Empty of rain
Rolling winds across
the Firmament

And the needles whimper
In the autumn breeze
As a field of clouds churns
In the mountains
At the horizon

The day is lost here--
Where time comes and goes with
No witness,
For the ancient sea
Is but talc and bone

And in the distance,
The glimmer of a car window
Reflecting the sun.
Bryce Sep 24
This is poetry--
Unknown and discussed
In no particular matters
Until death
Doth part
the Poet from his art
And ought to be--

But the saddest lovers are the living--
Who weave dastard tragedies
In goldpence and fame
And in hope, break Foundations
on laureled mounts,
Calling desperate to empty crypts
Which once housed their Muses

Praise and please to you, Polyhymn
Us hominids speak so bold
In our kindness to you!

While this is computed
And tooled to the ringing of gold
Glass
And transitions--
Mere sparks
In the ember of forge

That these mint implements
Are the forgery of that art
Consumes Hephaestus in his doubts
Of a father's true fires
And the alchem of his own

Clio, remember thy crowning!
The doubts of this mournful sphere
And the pain of our pasts
Are yours to cast within the stele
And praise be, toward your simple carvings of man!

Doting and careful could I be,
Lashing my wrists with decay
Stash my words by the reeds
I could hold the world up to keep
Our own love of the earth
In the same way
she should be earned

There is a certainty of that
Loveless act, the plotting of land
To place corpses upon the earth
For circus and grandeur

This is ultimately
The fate of you poets,
Cast as stones amongst the stream
Blackened and cold

And you will not know but the soul of you in deed
And your words will fall Deaf
Upon these fears of the freed

When they devour themselves in the temples
And massacre the streets
Exhume worn roads
Which bridged their father's feats

And when it is done
And the words come to rest
In the ruins and the spires
All but symbols and jests

No more, no more!
For it is all in their speech
It is all in good kind
And all left to me.
Poetry is art and art is dead, and it cannot be resumed unless understood in its aesthetic. For rivival comes but once and only upon death can the world understand the will of the living.
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