I miss you my dear
forgive the desecration
couldn't help myself
you left me so suddenly
leaving a hole in my heart

I couldn't let go
just had to keep you near me
I dug up your bones
on our anniversary
it would have been our 13th

beautiful in life
a beautiful skeleton
I took your femur
then reburied your remains
I hope you don't mind, my dear

I cut off both ends
burning them down to ashes
ceremonial
rubbing them into my skin
wailing and wearing sackcloth

hollowing the rest
burning holes in their places
forming a new flute
haunting, soulful melodies
bittersweet consolations

Dig deep poet;
You too reader;

Commandment One:

Both must obsess to possess,
Air the curvature of each line
shape with two hands, creasing and
no ceasing not till the air waves have filled
your flushed face with compressed comprehensions

You weep as you compose!
Good!
The well of tears where hid
the pool of emotions
in cavernous reservoirs
in the center of your
gravity,
needs a daily tapping,
a draining, a purification,
a quenching sweet and
raucous

where you dig, salted water will come

in the soiled, imperial but imperfect body/mind cappuccino,
there are swirls of treasures, sins and histrionics
that need discovery, expiation, expulsion,
when~then, object is surgically removed,
accept surging water will desoil,
and you can revel
in the revelation
of honest effort

Debate Commencement:

reveal, which, what and how
much, how much? how much?
(this reverbs)
what must be shared,
what must be reburied,
what must be refuted,
what must be reconstructed,
refurbished,
and what must be
demolished & deconstructed

ah, but as soul judge,
you hold yourself to a higher standard,
but in all of this but two constraints rule:

the quality of the recalled data,
the quantity of storage space delimitation

do not tease us with rivulets, nor bury
us under thunderous rushes of memories
spilling and cresting with a reek of abandon,
unless, you’re abandoning the memory en tout,
giving us your newly orphaned all innermost,
then, we must accept the product of your labor,
whether it be spoiled fruit or glorious
                            truth

Tuesday Apr 16
8:32AM
(the year of pollard, a/k/a 2024)

There is a little girl in a flowery sundress who is giggling and skipping through a field.
The little girl decided to make a flower crown.
She picked each flower carefully, and she examined each silk petal.
Her eyes squinting with excitement as she wove the stems together.
When she was finished she looked at the crown for a long time.
She decided that it wasn't very good.
She hated it.
She dug a hole and put the very special wilted flowers back where she found them.
She dug and dug and patted with her little fingers until the dirt was stuck in her nails.
She tried to make the little plants stand up straight again.
She couldnt.
She kept digging until she could fit in the hole quite nicely.
She reburied herself, scooting the soft dirt onto herself as she stood in the hole slowly inhaling the gritty powder.
Once she was completely buried she struggled to push her hand out of the ground.
She barely held the beautifully weak flowers just above the dirt.
The flowers needed to be beautiful again. Sacrificing herself was the only way that she could think of to make them feel normal one last time.
She was running out of air.
One breath in.
Her hand wavered as she gripped harshly onto the green stems.
One breath out.
The delicate flowers and small dirt stained fingernails slowly relaxed and layed down in the dirt to rest.
No breath in.

My breath caught, frozen in July
Summer's heat, couldn't draw near
Such was the sight, broken before me

Crouching, ******* the earth
The town broken, lay before me
Radiated in charcoal end, smoking embers

Centered around, spoked out
Once standing proud, a church
Only its brass cross now, tombstoned

Precious packaged, I circled
Searching for life, not charred remains
Either eluded me, ash rained

I crept, grey cloaked and hidden
Strange stories, whispered on mens lips
In homes lit brighter, the night seemed darker

Far East, something had risen
Had cast of ill formed shells, shrugged
Minds and bodies, bent strange

My destination, unsurvived
This brimstone eruption, complete
Little but a frame, withered home

Sifting through wreckage, human and debris
The hand was there, stiff and curled
Wearing the ring, but not a ring

Sawn, not touched
The hand, with me
As well, the ring

In its place, less burdened
The package, placed
Payment for, left handed thief

Spending moments, no less
I sought the church, devoid of life
Additional promise, hidden away

It's timber splintered, crushing
Burned from within, cries on the wind
Its doors had been barred, broken in

Protecting souls, blacken, wooden and thin
Strange symbols, golden jeweled, silver skinned
The Hanging God, crucified and crowned

Such as gods may, none were saved
Children, babies and mothers alike
All tortured by flame, fire

Treasure, reburied in hold
Leather bound, and square
And the thief, hand ring

I redonned cloak, boot and stick
Wrapped in grey, clinging to shadow
With twightlite falling, sped foot

Far from this place, burned to soot
Too many human, blooded and torn
But most haste, those dead and unhuman

I watched close the shadowed, deep
Fearing to be followed, more; unsleep
Seeking to deliver unholy, but my soul keep