The Next Space

She flitted away into the thin air, leaving
Traces of her ice-white flames
Where a quite quaint kiosk stood quietly
She gave me a smile as she said, “Come and follow me.”
The closest simile I can think of to describe her intonation,
Consists of: like she knew of something I didn’t know of.

When she shone, again, at the nexus
Like she said she would, she then left.
Leaving me, right here, with no way
To reach the next space, I
Frantically sought after her sanctity,
But I can’t seem to remember,
Where or when it was, when I asked
Myself; Isn’t it enough that I saw her,
That I found her again and again,
To prove to my brethren of my not insanity?

When I knew that it wasn’t.
Because the last time I’d nearly
Convinced them mystical beings existed.

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Behoove

Instinctual subversive rumblings
Ramble on about ambling sufferings
Erroneously within ambers
Pulled away by duty’s calls.

Nevermind,
It was just gas.

But at the helm of seriousness,
Splattered gains grinded in the pits,
Inebriated inside elongated bowels, before
And after it had passed.


The Horrid Shadow of Delusion

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;
And then
The horrid shadow of delusion
Pierces its fingers into my existence.

-Sabs-

The Cost of Belief

There was a time I believed
In a fantasy place.
I built a temple on
Corinthian orders
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.

But eventually,
In disbelief, I
Watched the wrecking ball
Of objective participants
Demolish the columns
I had sculpted with
Time and attention
Instantaneously,
Left in ruin.

I won’t build temples again.

I wish
You had chosen life instead.
I had wanted to see magic
At least once.

-Sabs-

Olive

She wasn’t writing about specifics
The misdirected arrow was without purpose
She was not a huntress.
She only knew what it felt like
For commonalities.

Still this emptiness devours
This faded ochre olive landscape
Where dreams imagined
Dense deep green forestation.
Loss is loss,
Be it imagined,
Because I thought it reasoned.

She was an oracle.
She prophesied the living future.

Or was it her own destiny
She saw in her divination,
When she spoke of prisons,
Chalked marks along the walls,
Tallying up the days
That would be passing.

-Sabs-