Overwhelmed by relief,
Waves of absolution
Washes over my grief
As she rises from her grave
My pleas that she remained
On this earth,
Have been heard
Overriding the hate
That came from
Demented forms of manipulation.
What kind of being
Fakes their death
As a method
To distort an others
The danger of a promise
To a dead person.
Is this what she wanted?
Cautiously noting the mind’s receding ebb,
Drawn tides start to analyse what could be baryonic
Baryogenesis. Nearly tangible composite matter, a
Caustic reminder of how mind controlled fingers left me daunted.
Entreaties written in order to salvage my newfound motif,
Envelope me in irrefutable mysterious nebulaic puff.
Extended exposure or optical filters inspire
Extricated colours of nuanced diaphora,
Commonly referred to as love. As descended
Euphoric waves disdainfully entertain the beguiled.
Seizing engrossing aggrandized attention in death;
Morally activating caustic, corroding, scathing contrition;
As epidemic discomfort spreads in dexterous manipulations;
Spurring consequential acts of feeble emanation;
Seeking evidence of true relinquishment or obstruction;
Delayed responses fueling remorseful regret;
Doubting the reception of outstretched hands;
The outcomes serving as proof for fleeting love or loss;
Reciprocal fascinations are entertained whimsically;
Bereavement forces acknowledgement of powerlessness;
As reluctant reverberations resolve to take preventative measures;
The horrid shadow of delusion
Pierces its fingers into my existence.
There was a time I believed
In a fantasy place.
I built a temple on
Of paranoid imagination,
Ornate acanthus leaves
Chiseled into fine lunacy,
Screeds of data scrolled
Into voluted borders,
As fluted grooves of belief
Sang to me, ’twas reasoned.
In disbelief, I
Watched the wrecking ball
Of objective participants
Demolish the columns
I had sculpted with
Time and attention
Left in ruin.
I won’t build temples again.
You had chosen life instead.
I had wanted to see magic
At least once.
A portion of me probes
Your unsatiated intent,
Searching for the reasons
Of such quick witted descent.
Wouldn’t the forthcoming
Of ceaseless gratuitous surges
Cause one to remain motionless.
Would you really have simply left,
Without having wet your hunger
With the form that you swore you adored,
Without listening to the heralded echoes
Designed to inflate your already inflated ego.
I ponder how you’d leave,
Lover of art, truth, love, and grief,
With your curiosity piqued,
Without having heard your unsung worship,
Without having read your exalted narrative.
Was it because
I don’t know enough.
Was it really love
That you desired
Or didst thou merely seek
To see thyself donned in glory.
The lies you spelled
Of how Love was the answer,
Away from me.
He reveled in the beauty of his lovers,
Of the marvels of the earth,
The treasures of the universe,
The offspring life birthed.
He saw beauty;
How does one who sees,
Decide to cease
Ambling down paths
Was the trek so cruel and sick
That he’d simply leave
With reckless abandon.
Was there nothing
That could press him
To maintain cognition.
I don’t know how much he was hurting.
But he could have been lying.
It could have been
The purpose of poetry.
The first time he vanished from the earth
I prayed to the gods; they answered with mirth
The heavens smiled, showed me great fortune;
Desperately I searched, though my soul, tortured,
I’d hold my head in my hands, and by chance,
Or dedication, or maybe it had been planned,
I heard him ask a question. While I was swept
Over by indecision, I wavered, incessantly, I kept
Putting it under examination. I’d leave it to faith;
With unhindered determination he’d reach the place
He wanted to be. Grains of sand slithered downwards,
I started to worry; apprehension surged me forward,
Responding to lost time, I gave him a particle;
“I have been searching”; just in case it mattered.
But I remain uncertain, will I, without the help
Of the sovereign, be able to hear his voice again.
If he isn’t dead.
I pretended to be somebody else
I hid my persona in hopes I could watch him
I scantily built her identity
With a meager amount of words.
But if a skillful writer wanted
They could hide themselves.
They could build a person that was realistic
With a rich history and a background
A story, a name, an identity
Taking hold of another perspective
Writing down words with a different lens.
What if he noticed,
What if he decides to hide himself,
Making it near impossible,
To hear his voice again.
If he isn’t actually dead.
I can reason
That it was never about me;
That she was me, her, and him, and them;
The thoughts that would slither and writhe
Deep inside the dark infinite expanse
Demonically apparating, flitting, in and out
Leaving particle trails of excrements
Laying waste in synaptic data encasement;
But I wanted it to be.
That was in some other life,
Some other utopian dream,
I created in efforts to keep,
This fantasy fiction that fate
Unfolded in front of me.
She would say it better
She was better with words
If she really wanted to make a connection
She could have reached out and grabbed
The trembling hand I had extended.
But she didn’t.
Of her cold lifeless body