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Dec 2019 · 187
04122019 sunset
Kirryn Dec 2019
whatever keeps your head above water,
love it hard enough to break your heart.
everything is ephemeral;
love hard enough to carve scars onto your soul.
Dec 2019 · 76
capital I
Kirryn Dec 2019
why expend effort
when Rupi
and Lang
and clichés
and line breaks
I'm a bitter exasperated f*ck yes why do you ask
Nov 2019 · 86
aureate drop
Kirryn Nov 2019
the wizard of light
disciple who threw his trust to the radiowaves
said that there was a sea deeper than the self
(stained purple like wonder)
from which pearls of gold could appear
with a little searching
a little belief
just a little

I seek it like air.

if I dream
you up entirely
if I breathe into you form and function
(the gentle curve of your lips, the jutting of your chin
your kaleidoscope eyes blue, no green, no brown
glowing too bright with emotion)
if I gift you with past and future
could I find you?

could I dream you out of the violet brine
of a ocean of pure consciousness?
I am of the water, I rose from the water
I will return to it, and I will depart again

(I exist,
therefore you must.)

I will clutch you tight in my fist,
you, tiny pearldrop of gold,
and break for the surface
ride the electrical signals to the shore
gasp for oxygen in a fit of rebirth,
breathe -- with you
you, flickering so brightly on the other side of my eyelids

(one more dream, just one
one more when I take you in my arms
and am no longer hollow.
allow me dreams, allow me to drown
if this is all I have
then allow me it, falling,
and it may -- just maybe --
it may be enough)
stream-of-consciousness love song of sorts
Kirryn Nov 2019
floating above it all
like some waterbird, ****** on the sea breeze,
riding those thermals.

floating above it all
like a program running riot over all the other subprograms,
emergency protocol initiated.

the physical, removed:
there, like a ghost, but so distant
pouding head
more like echoes than sounds

and here I sit, and wait
to fall
for the consequences to catch up
to the moment.
so my violent neighbours were having a domestic and I had to call the cops, again
PTSD is a nightmare, lemme tell you
Kirryn Oct 2019
time moves like worried rivulets of silver
bleeding from a clock face
curling around the numerals like a peaceless filigree
dripping slow moments with a
to the floor.
we remain bound slaves to time
our rust-burdened chains tied to the deceptively frail sweep hand
whirled about with frantic chronohurry, and little difference
between one minute and the next.
eighty-six thousand four hundred quick atomic jerks
from pinpoint to pinpoint;
we dance between the
now-here-no-where-ness, captive and forced
moving within time’s mercurial confines
a horologic rondo of waterlike madness and fire-crazed surety
jumping en pointe from minute hand to hour hand
dancers whirling like aureate cogwheels hidden behind a
of fragile simplicity.

where are we,

— The End —