Originally repudiated advances
Swerved and sharply turned
Into opposed compositional
Consequentially followed after
Four walls inched inward incrementally
Gaining momentum in steady surges
Of anecdotally incriminating processes
Of perceived occlusions of escape’s nonexistence.
Digits mouthed through curtain blinds;
Futility flailing in desperation
Directed at what was eventually determined
To be an illusory correspondent.
Situationally replicated sequences
Point in symmetrical directions
Of deluded fantasies.
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.
“What is wrong with you,
You are supposed to
Be focusing on projects.”
“I found passion.”
“You’ve allowed yourself
To be consumed
By something weaker,
“What is it?
Is it an apparition?”
“You don’t even know.
A fucking fabrication.
You don’t even know.”
Its depth took over me,
There was a world to see.
The plans we made
Ripped in ultramarine
Sheets of an aberration.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Place that drive
In other things
“The sea is important.”
“Not when its existence
Is a question.”
Its the creatures
I can’t discern.”
“Being uncertain is a part of life.”
“But I need to know.”
Star splattered speckles
Expansive matter twinkling
In hues of colours
You can’t compress.
Sparkling, radiating cosmic glory,
Collided into mine;
Tiny in world of no intrusion.
In every piece there was substance
Swirling, extending, finally
Interweaving, tendril vines,
Found their way
Into my own.
Inspired by her presence
Admiration extruded my core
Dripping from every pore.
Information is readily available to those who seek it,
As if I was unaware of it.
But she wasn’t
She had a body, a soul.
She was someone
I wanted to know and abhor.
It was all conjecture
Or the intangibles
She wasn’t writing about specifics
The misdirected arrow was without purpose
She was not a huntress.
She only knew what it felt like
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.
Within his hands he held a promise
I had sought since the first time I had fallen
Perhaps long before the premise.
Even if it may not have been pointed in my direction
He had shown me love, understanding, predilection
I wanted to know the wisdom, the knowledge radiated
From inside the lines he had written.
What was this creature known as man, I wanted
To know it. His soul piercing stare infiltrated
My senses, my body. But I didn’t possess
The clairvoyant vision he had been granted
In reading these words where we profess
Our basic fundamental existence. Venerated
Cajolement could have been generic
Attracting those who turn to writing. But it felt specific.
But I know
Not all that different.