"researcher" poems
A pretty blonde researcher
was observing, from a “blind”,
some Silverback Gorillas-
among the final of their kind.
The senior of the silverbacks,
his back turned towards the” blind”,
was communicating with his troop
with gestures much like sign.
“She who is observing us
is a member of that tribe
who fell from grace with Heaven
and was banished far and wide.”
“They were banished from this Eden,
and confounded in their speech.
They then made war upon each other
and have never once known peace”
“Observe, in them, their arrogance,
they think themselves evolved,
Yet they are apes that practice war
and ****** their own kind”
“A gorilla child knows not but love
and tenderness in kind.
Where there is many a human child
left neglected on the vine.”
From elsewhere in the Jungle came
the shouts of evil men.
Poachers of the coarsest sort
with Silverbacks in mind.
“Disperse my sons and daughters.
It’s time to flee and hide
from those who seek our hides and meat
to sanctuary, hie.”
The silverback then beat his chest
and, to buy the others time,
charged against those evil men
and, for his children, died.
Time passed before the searchers
came upon the blind
where the murdered Dian Fossey lay
where the Silverback had died.
Poachers want no witnesses
to their theft of meat and hide
They left with her the severed hands
of one not kin but kind.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose life partner is beauty
Who makes more sense in a minute of listening
Then we do in a lifetime of talking
Who paints olive trees and cypresses
And now knows it's not called crazy
It's called pain, and it will pass
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who wakes up an hour before he falls asleep
And yet, never stops dreaming
Who rewrites morality with every fraction of information intake
And remixes truth until we're left bobbing our heads
With no other choice than to just feel it
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose children are freedom
Who walks in the rain while we plain get wet
Who wants nothing more than to want nothing more
Who only makes routine out of celebration
And love
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who ties masterpieces to rogue kites
And whispers nonsense into researcher's ears
Who knows that nobody is perfect
And takes the words "meant to be" very very seriously
Who exists
And is **** proud of that
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who revises his rewrites of morality
When information intake is remixed by reality
Until we're left shaking our heads
With no other choice than to think
Wait for me
And save me a glass
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 11:05 PM UTC
As we just finished a part of our lives
And started to sort our plans
Seeing the future glistening in our eyes
Ready to take the first step in broad lands
" I wanna be a doctor " " I wanna be a dentist "
" I wanna be a researcher " " I wanna be a scientist "
But life isn't wrapped within your fist
Sometimes, It decides to arrange some fences for you
If you can't overcome , then forget all dreams that you pursue
You beat one and fail in another
Then you begin to think, "Bad luck " is all you gather
Once you look around; searching for someone to take your hand
All you find; are punches that taste bland !
Offensive words destroy your plans
This is the worst disaster with people standing as fans ...
You feel stunned and all dreams fall apart
" Hey look around and seek a fresh start "
That's worse than having an arrow in the heart !
So keep going in your way
Don't care about what people say
No more places for weakness to stay
There is a long journey after the end of that frustration play ....
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
It was heard in every place
The tragic loss of a man of thought,
A researcher of time and space,
A down to earth astronaut.
But he wasn’t “down to earth”,
Instead he was quite the opposite
Incredible ideas and theories
A creativity that would never quit
He’d stand on the shoulders of giants
He stands even though he sits.
He’s Superman in a floating space station
And though he lost at quantum chess,
His ideas are heard in every nation
Of a great man, you would expect no less.
So how do we cope you may ask?
How does one recover in a world so weary,
Well surprisingly enough he gave us the answer.
It’s his Hawking Radiation Theory.
Hawking radiation weakens a black hole
But this is more than just celestial entities.
It can describe coping as a whole.
Or instead coping as a hole, you see.
Like his theory, grief diminishes over time.
We learn to move on and remember.
We write the legacy he built in his prime.
And we make a flame from the dying ember.
A flame!
A beacon!
To light the future and radiate through all of creation.
Radiate through all of time!
Now that’s Hawking Radiation.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
Before hearing about your death
I began a novel inspired by you
and your struggle with the truth--
The truth of who you were,
what you wanted of life and of me.
And it became a journey
into the past, into a life
that had happened before
we met, decades ago,
and after we parted for good,
I wove a new life out of remnants,
of things I knew or just supposed.
And like a good researcher,
I told of your parents' failings,
the darker side of love.
Of your grandmother and friends,
and even your cousin who
brought you to me,
Luring you out of the homogeneous crowd
and into our perfect valley--
"the land of spires and dreams".
I even spoke warmly of our artless love
and our drifting apart like ghost ships.
After our second parting,
when you left the mortal coil,
I tried not to reminisce about us,
for the story was yours, not mine,
But I fear that a mirror kept
cropping up behind me and
around corners, erasing mystery.
Narcissus caught me time and again.
Even so, I created times for you
that I had never seen or heard.
I have you swimming off La Jolla,
traipsing on mountain paths
in the wilds of British Columbia,
or arguing with your wife
in that mansion you dreamed of.
I invented a girl you would like
and two kids who loved you
in spite of everything.
Your memories of me became
less urgent, locked in a chess box,
in songs or on film, hidden away.
I analyzed your youth, your vanity,
lust, boredom, mistakes and age.
And when it came time for you
to make a decision: to stay or go
again, either west or east,
I stopped and looked over your life,
rolled out flat, like the American plain
from western crags to eastern city
and like a broken record,
the choice shuttled back and forth,
not letting me decide for you.
Glancing at a photo
of your childhood home,
I realized at last,
not that you had died too soon,
but that I really never knew you.
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 6:00 PM UTC
it is small and has
a coat of fur
on this fact we'll
all concur
a dozen or more
were kept at the lab facility
where a researcher was
testing their reasoning capability
these animals are prolific
breeders
they're extra-ordinary
off spring seeders
they can be problematic
to growers of grain
many years ago there was
an infestation on the western plain
if you see them running
around your house
you'll say unto yourself
them critters ain't grouse
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 7:05 PM UTC
The poets all lied.
Eyes are not the window to the soul.
If that were the case,
All humans would be empaths,
And we'd be free from plague and war.
After all,
It's easy to gaze through the glass.
Eyes,
Are the manuscripts of survival,
And it takes a trained researcher
To decipher the ramblings
And recounts of a life lived in full.
Every glance.
Every dart.
Every blink.
Every tear.
Every eye writes words of trauma,
And histories of realities,
Which one cannot understand
As simply,
As one can stare through the pane.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 12:28 AM UTC
I’d heard a story in that proverbial once upon a time
(Though its origins are hazy, at best, to me now:
Perhaps something my son heard at Sunday school,
Or part of the never-ending nattering
From the marketing guy at lunchtime,
Maybe cackled by the crazy, toothless blind guy on the 16A bus)
Concerning the programmers who’d worked on a project
In the earliest days of nano-technology,
Creating software for their relative monoliths,
Australopitchecuses of artificial intelligence,
Serving as prototypes for some envisioned universe
Where tiny drones served the whims of some doctor or researcher
Operating unseen and omnipotent behind some microscope or monitor.
The trials went quite smoothly, almost flawlessly,
The models impeccably doing what binary switches
And if-then-else statements decreed,
But the researches noticed that
Just before they executed the final bit of code,
The models would invariably exhibit
A slight hesitation--almost imperceptible, infinitesimal even,
But clearly occurring, nonetheless.
They’d assumed, quite naturally, it was a mere matter of de-bugging,
Some misplaced comma or parentheses among the thousands,
But they reviewed the code any number of dozens of time,
Only to find it was clean as a whistle.
What’s more, they’d found that while the vacillation appeared
At the same point in the process,
It didn’t happen at exactly the same time;
Indeed, they cropped up, relatively speaking, months, even years apart.
One of the white coats jokingly referred to the pause
As the machines “Peggy Lee moment”
(You know, ‘Is that all there is?’)
But no one else involved the project saw the humor.
They’d decided to ignore or accept the quirk, though it was rumored
That it drove a few of the programmers to near-madness,
With one or two of their number bolting the project without notice,
Entering monasteries with the intent
Of shutting themselves off from the outside world
For the rest of their days, and its existence was buried
In reams of footnotes at the end of their final report
(Though as I said, the tale’s source is unclear,
And I am inclined to regard it as apocryphal.)
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
My bed creaks with the pain of my loneliness,
My life reeks of the stench of my emptiness.
Do not run away considering me desperate,
A better lover than me you can only imagine.
My past is smeared with pains and sorrows,
My present painted with a cautious colour.
My future is bleak, I can't foretell a thing,
Come along if you want, don't be hesitant.
I'm not desperate, I've been lonely for far too long,
Now that you are here, I won't let you go away from me.
I'm not bad, I'm a PhD researcher, and have a future too,
Be my lover, we shall go for hiking on the hills & put up a tent.
In the night outside the tent, we shall make a bonfire,
And also cook the food with peaceful veg ingredients.
You just need to eat and feed me too, I shall do the cooking.
Afterwards inside the tent, we shall make love hot and pure.
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 1:18 PM UTC
Please
The Buddha.
The Buddha.
Please don’t say it again.
I hear him around me.
I see him in a taxi.
I eat him with rice.
He is the rising steam that warms my face.
Biography: William Reyland is a religious philosophy researcher and the author of Sons of Isan. His published work includes cultural observations, human interest articles and Buddhist research related to the environment. He lives in Bangkok, Thailand.
"Please" was previously published in The Buddhist Poetry Review Number 3, 2011.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 12:24 AM UTC
She’s Luz-Vi-Minda
Priestess of Asia
When incubus harms
She takes out her charms…
Behold! Jose Rizal
Our hero national
Poet, doctor, researcher
Farmer, herder, school-builder
Fought Spaniards with paper and pen
Luzon’s charm – noblest of our men!
Behold! Lapu-Lapu!
Defender of Cebu
First terror of invaders
Famed Magellan’s death renders
Rammed Spaniards with native bolo
Visayas’ charm – quaintest hero!
Behold! Purmassuri!
Awesome Muslim lady
Wise heroine of Sulu
Foreigners cannot subdue
Disturbed Spaniards so tribesmen won
Mindanao’s charm – enemies thrown!
-11/27/2011
(Dumarao)
*First Incubus Collection
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 9:40 PM UTC
Dear Diary,
Do you remember
The little ten year old girl
Who wrote in that book
The girl who couldn't
Spell business without spellcheck
To save someone's life
The one who told you
About how she loved airports
So much she would fly
Who believed she could
Be a pilot, reporter,
and a researcher
The one who went on
For pages about mangroves
And the local reef
Who loved the world so
With all of its things to do
In such finite time
Who stood mesmerized
Over Miami's night lights
In a hotel room
The little girl who
Made an essay's outline in
Her polkadot book
The one who said she
Hated when her sister took
The hotel bed's sheets
The girl who dreamt of
Her eleventh birthday, so
She could be a witch
The one who knew that
She wasn't entirely
Regular or sane
Who wrote of her mom
Who threatened to burn you if
She kept on writing
Who wrote of her dad
And mom arguing in both
Private and public
Who was afraid of
"Inappropriate" things, since
Her parents said so
The one who told you
That she had no other friends
On her school's blacktop
The one who panicked
When she got less than eighty
For any test score
The one who knew she
Could never tell the grown-ups
Just how bad she felt
The one who vowed that
If MPs and psych wards came
She would kick and scream
Well I'm starting to
Because she was right here for
My entire life
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
What is right for you is what will invigorate and inspire your soul. What is wrong is what does not nourish your soul.
You will always regret having not tried more than you will regret having tried the wrong thing.
In trying the wrong thing, you realize that it is not right for you. And using that information, it becomes easier to discern what is, therefore, right for you. It will be easier to get to what's right.
And so above all, instead of feeling pressured to do the right things, and make the right choices, and never stumble or fall...
Feel free, instead. To do anything you can imagine. And I mean it. If it is right, good! And if it is wrong, then have patience. Because if we allow it to, then what is wrong can help lead us to the right path.
What is right, too, will eventually be wrong. The dancer will not dance the same way at 80 as they did at 20. The researcher may become too fragile for the stress of conducting research, though at another time they were not. We are always changing, as our needs do as well.
And so do not judge what is wrong in your life. Consider, instead, the possibility that what is wrong may be moulding you, shaping you, guiding you towards what is right. And when you find what is right, remember what brought you there.
We don't always like to acknowledge it, but sometimes it is the pain, the hardship, the way we felt broken that made us truly want to seek out love. And it is this strong, empowered will that moves us back into life. This is how darkness finds its purpose in the light.
The pursuits of the soul, understood through the mind and expressed through the body, are what make a life, alive.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 7:30 PM UTC
The release was unintentional, the Public was assured.
No vaccines were available, not that they’d have cured.
For every ten infected, they knew that eight would die.
more lethal than Ebola, and the people wondered why?
It was born in a researcher’s lab, a variant of the flu;
the strain from 1918 that murdered millions too.
Why he was let to do this work, I cannot understand.
Sadly we can’t ask him as he died by his own hand.
It preyed on old and young alike, it slaughtered rich and poor.
The dead were left unburied, and the pestilence slaughtered more.
It was clear the Horsemen rode that night, we heard their banshee scream.
We decided if we were to die, that first we’d have Poteen.
Poteen is a potent brew, distilled three times by hand.
Its an old family recipe handed down by my old man.
As golden drops poured in each glass we raised a toast on high:
“We salute thee, Mighty Lord, we who are about to die.”
A Warmth of stupefaction went coursing through our veins.
When we finally sobered up, no pathogens remained.
Who knew my father’s recipe could put the plague to flight?
We saved as many as we could; no man went dry that night.
The Sun shone on a brave new world, the air was fresh and clean..
The rivers still flowed to the Seas and Eagles still took flight
The Politicians all had died; both the Left and Right.
We left the Cities far behind and lived upon the land,
And never was a jug of “dew” far from my right hand.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
embattled researcher
mad-scientist hair-do
lot 47591-03F4 is not reacting as hypothesized
drawing board black hole ***** more life
from chalk caked fingernails
as the streets flow red with blood of the infected masses –
radiation poisoning runs rampant
across the northern hemisphere
undetected
slaying the unsuspecting
no one is protected
deflecting these thoughts he scratches a head
thin on hair, but long on freckles –
shadowy figure of death looms in the corner of every dream
creating a dependence on methamphetamine
which alters clear thinking
breeding ground of alternative ideas
half-crazed notions of grandeur and prominence
as soon as the world is saved –
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
Twinkling stars are unable to conceal the real picture of Karbastan
As knowledge is light!
So they twinkle at night!
In the meanwhile!
The beauty of dawn prevails everywhere
To stop the blowing of unwanted air
To console the victims and suffered from unwanted occurring
under the cruel shelter of night
As I think with full of might
To stop the blowing of unwanted air
Stars twinkle at night
O' passerby researcher! would you like to know
O' passerby researcher! would you like to do something for "Karbastan"?
as they all know!
as they know all
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
. _for JLaw♥_ .
(1) (1) (0) (0) (0) Comments (0) (0) No ♥
comments Happy Birthday Birthday Happy
Birthday Happy Birth Birthday Happy Birthday
Happy Birthday Happy Birthday, change
hands, interpretation of hands, hands and photo
clipboard of Stock Photography of One Man
and his wife and her mother and her mother
and her mother and mother; Announced in ♥
Pictures, Photos, Free Videos, Photos, drawing,
pictures, pictures, pictures, pictures, pictures,
art prints, fine art & song, dreams, conversation,
Spanish Vitamin R & quotes; researcher answers
field of English speaking and speaking English
in England, ******* ****** evil panic group satin
group old clusters of blind cars only spring, ♥
spring price in Ireland before listening; church
temple legends glass walk high glossy friend
small cake, cake cake cat catheter cake chart
nice an [eem] school, middle school saves the
holy holy man's cut, cut the crap, can bring
a barber leaves, leaf, leaves ugly jellyfish ♥
looking for a small sword of tongue, take a walk
and think someone can meet Ivan after wanting
a yellow stripper's yellow sword, **** (0) (0) (0)
(0) (0) (0) (0) (0) (0) (0) (0) (0) (0) (0) (0) ) wall,
Hell calls and plays ancient brown open american
station; read girl, European royal double room
god, god, Spain city church celebrate football
time and lots of singing; magic hand ********
dance, wooden old jewelry, Japanese; Japanese
background knowledge; knowledge of the history
of American music, China snooch mountains, ♥
lord spread-eagle, Asian, harmful poetry helps
memory, evening, English and English, English
******* evil, evil disability office satin York's
old car group news, bad news; Ireland before
listening to Mary's request in the temple legends
of glass walks in cheerleaders cake cake ♥
cake lake cake, lake cake, chart, chart, shaped
perfectly; school school to make the devil, jinn's
sacred jack-cut, George in Germany, Germany
wears cuff-links, page India Medusa's death,
'i walk around in a bettie', want to visit
somewhere,
Ivan,
after the thinking stripper,
♥ yellow ******* strippers
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 6:17 AM UTC
.
The search goes on for life
outside our sphere of knowledge.
A galactic researcher expresses his desire
for answers before he dies.
He might have to settle for afterwards.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
We kissed.
Well I kissed you and then we took off. We kissed twice that night. Long kisses in the middle of a parking lot. Long kisses and lip bites. Chicago.
I kissed you in an effort to tie up loose ends. I kissed you so that I'd put the wondering to rest. I was a scientist you see. I had to analyze what your lips felt like, research the taste of your mouth.
I wanted to breath you. I didn't know if that was even possible but I was just conducting an experiment. It wasn't supposed to last. It wasn't supposed to be replicated. It was just an experiment.
I was kissing you to leave you.
Intending for our first kiss to be our kiss goodbye.
Then I flew home the next day and we didn't speak for three weeks. I didn't know that my research would ruin me. That I'd think about your lips obsessively for days. That I'd hate myself for the constant oscillations of you through my thoughts.
I wasn't prepared.
Then we talked. I found out you were too drunk to even remember the kiss. I was upset but I laughed instead. I pretended to be disgusted when I told you that you had tasted like cigarettes and alcohol. But really, I was disgusted with myself for liking everything about the kiss - including the taste of you and everything on your breath.
I've come to realize I was not a researcher that night. I was a fool. A fool who thought a first kiss with a long time crush would tie up loose ends. I tied up nothing that night. Instead I had taken the sharpest scissors I could have found and initiated the greatest unraveling of sanity my 22 year old self had ever endured.
Why did I have to kiss you? I should have walked away. Hell, I should have run away like the very ground near you was on fire. Because while I've thought about you every single day since I've left, I know I likely haven't graced your imagination. Our brains are spinning very different memories.
That's the thing about memories though. Two people can be in the exact same place, at the exact same time, and have completely different recollections of the events. For me, our kiss is a memory that I've turned over in my hands, again and again. Just when I think I'm safe, when I think I've examined every aspect, I find a jagged edge and I'm cut once again.
I cannot keep re-dressing new wounds.
For you though, our kiss is a hazy, sun faded piece of paper. A second thought. IF that.
A paper so insignificant, it's recall isn't worth the effort. Who cares what the faded ink once read.
I should have never become a researcher.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
the funding for scientific research
has had a pruning of late
lab trials cannot be taken off
the government's slate
the men in the treasury office
have got their reckoning wrong
budgets mustn't be skimmed
so valuable research can prolong
discovering an effective remedy
for a diseases or ailing plight
is something that doesn't happen
at the speed of light
it takes years to develop
a drug treatment which will heal
and our medical researchers
require a better budgetary deal
a shortfall in funding
shall impair the researcher's vital work
sustain government support
is needed for them to accomplish their work
without a handsome pledge
research teeters on the edge
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
*The soul lost his body, after going into the cave
and discovering everything. In the middle of traffic its
body fell but its soul didn't, and the soul dubbed cloaks
and masks because it could still wear those, and because it was
afraid, it didn't know what had happened.
Researchers took what the soul had found- a vile of a
mystery substance and something else, which was
dropped and lost in the mud. they called the substance
magic.
A researcher found proof of actual angels so he took
a few people in to experience it. Put a drop of magic
on their tongues and turned off the lights- (3 people,
he had brought) and had them take pictures of an old
slideshow going through photographs of faces and
silhouettes so fast you couldn't even see them. The
film was old cinema.
The first person's pictures were blurry, but
showed white blurs behind people's backs, in
the shape of wings.
My photos were of precise
and clear faces, the same white blur behind
their heads. (The face of the man the most important,
stands out as dearest in my head.)
The third person's photos were supposed to be
the best, but they were lost in the same mud,
with a cat pawing them in.*
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
A poet, by necessity, cannot be a genius. What most poets are, are manics with a knack for finding a consistency- logical or illogical- in the human condition and the world around them. A poet, within themselves, has the ability to create something that otherwise could not exist in the tangible world; a thought, a feeling, an idea, a hope, a lover, even another world entirely. But a poet is not a genius. Or at least cannot be perceived as, or believe he is, one. For poetry to have poignancy, emotion and sense it must be selfless and selfish, sweet and agonising, peaceful and anarchic. But it cannot ever be the work of a genius. Geniuses are absolute in themselves, poets are abstract. Genius is the work of a researcher who finds a cure for deadly disease, not the simplicity of words. However poets can bring faith, sympathy, and even light a fire within their reader. But poets are not geniuses. They are wordsmiths that wind this world into something better or worse in their minds, in the hope that someone else will see it too. A poet cannot provide absolute truth or reason, therefore cannot ever be a genius. Their work however can be ingenious.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
אני יכול לזכור...I can remember
I.
in the ashes of Auschwitz
February 2018 / Shevat 5778
there exists no
kol hachavvyot,
the Infinite One bring/ing
all of reality into be-ing.
there is no 'ehyeh 'asher 'ehyeh
who formed Light,
who created Darkness.
II.
the candles of the Vanished
World are no longer
sown in the seasons of breath.
in 1920 Vilna, Yehu'dit bones
were excavated for horses
to be buried,
all by the tongue of a priest
covered in ambergris.
in 2018 Cyberia alleys,
the malefactor mime cries
as Long Island parhelia
flicker in the seasonal
ice around his little girls.
III.
the cypress of the
Kingdom of Night are
amidst natz'ri house gardens,
marking in the mouths of
opus dei children the straws
of Poland.
long after midnight we seek
solace in One-Eyed Paritus's
Meditations obliques,
where Sol Nazerman's
zoharic midrashim of
Shabtai Zisel are
narrated by Claude Lanzmann.
the quantum nonlocality
of the corpse of
ha'Kodesh Barukh hu
is the Hollerith tracking
number.
IV.
Nach uraltem, aengstlich beheutetem
Klostergeheimnis lernen selbst Greise
muehelos Kavier spielen.
-- Max Ernst
this is to the memories z"l of
Rod Steiger 14 April 1925-9 July 2002
Roman Vischniac 19 August 1897-22 January 1990
Rose Leamel Ziebell (1933-2007)
Dottie Sutton (1922-2015)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
© 3 February 2018 / 18 Shevat 5778
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
Torah אלילה Yehu'di Apikores / Philologia Kabbalistica Speculativa Researcher
לחיות זמן רב ולשגשג...לעולם לא עוד
THE KABBALAH FRACTALS PROJECT
לעולם לא אשכח
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 12:40 AM UTC
After Ten Thousand Years, what will remain; after the seas and sands have reclaimed L.A.?
When the continents don't look the same; shuffled around like dominoes, as God prepares to play another game.
Will the stars our audience stay, though we prioritise these silent spectators above our planetary play?
Then there shall come a day, when no taught tongue these words can say; lest as maxims to complement aristocratic displays. When this poem's rhythm and reason, no researcher can attain.
The Gate Wall has been long erode, rendered flat and smooth; a mat laid out upon the floor. Our precious salads' descendants, both physique and favour now wholly unknown; after Ten Thousand Years Nature's nurture will be shown.
After Ten Thousand Years, humanity will remain, and with their mortal expressions; the savagery of ten eons, nay eternity, shall be tamed.
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 11:01 PM UTC