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Phil B Sep 12
Humanity is restless in its pursuit of
pure, and unbiased comprehension.

But we are as blind as the ants,
Who navigate a pheromone soaked
sensation scape.
Only able to perceive perfume
trails, and the colour they emit.
Like the warm, hazy lights
of a carousel river steam boat,
They pass each other like
perfect strangers in the night.
Amidst the dark and misty waters
Unafraid to surrender trust
to the twinkling of an eye,
the faint smell of musky cigars
on collared shirts, or the
Incandescent shades of a lip.

We have yet to leave our ancestral
cave homes, full of mad desperation to
capture, define, and preserve the
fleeting forms of nature and it’s denizens.
Sand and ochre kicked up and splashed
in deeply passioned abandon,
as fingers raced and traced the earthy canvas,
Etching, marking, tracing and screaming.
Until, in the end, the exertion itself
is impressed into the rock-face wall.

Other, similar endeavours may well include,
The many voyages and explorations of
Early settlers and tribe folk,
in attempts to map the sprawling land masses,
from the tips of snowy doom filled mountain tops
down to the last measly grains of sand on distant coastlines.
And even now in the modern era,
The sky itself and the cosmos in its enormity,
Probed forever deeper, but never reaching
Its absolute depth.

The creating, and dividing, of art into
it’s multiple facets of genre and subject,
Always pushing outwards in the need,
yes, the very drive to express anything,
everything, and nothing at all.
Emotion itself made captive to
Staves of rhythmic and melodic
progression and regression.
to plumb the very essence of a note
would reveal a beyond Planck length
Spectrum of wave and particle,
Eternally ringing out into
The collective consciousness of the universe.

This isn’t a poem, so much as it
is a personal meditation into
The finite infinity we experience
From one moment, to the next.
Much like meaning, we can only
assign so much burden to a word,
only place so much faith in diction.
But that’s perfectly alright,
Because without ambiguity in
the shapes and forms of metaphors and simile,
We lose a sense of the PROFOUND.
The innate desire to find meaning,
in the most personal sense, in anything.

And really,
isn’t that the most beautiful thing
Ever?
Composed overwhelmed and in awe , of  everything, and nothing.
Paul Mar 13
Over the bed, a ceiling fan revolves
elliptically. The yellowed walls speak
of anxieties archived by the lungful.
From his fingers the snaking upward blue
smoke of burning tobacco describes tumult.
She has gone back into the world. Alone
in their aftermath he inhales like a figure
growing distant in a cinema purged
of heroes. The worn sheets rope about
his ankles and recall an inmate’s noose.
She'd been inside. And for years. How she assumed
her role in the act, face to the wall, silent, work-like.
It was a thing they laughed about. Her parting
glance was inscrutable.

He drew deeply, and a ring
of orange fire bloomed, briefly proclaiming love
remained a chance. Who could know? The arhythmic
rocking of the fan beat the hot air back
onto him, the lone smoker, smoking blankly.
The curtains billowed into the parking lot
like some great tongue, wildly, mute. And under
the window, in the shadowless heat, a dog,
limp with thirst, laps at the drips that drip from a pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary

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