[A few short poems. The next series (occupying 3 or so posts) will be poems written on the 13th and 14th of December in one mad rush of energy. I tend to write a lot of poetry on the bus. And explanations of some poems, in brackets like these, will be added from time to time.]
We fail language when
We cannot find the words,
Vocabularies stunted by
The rising sun.
The emptying of my soul
Was a long fall into the dark night
Propelled by lust and longing for
Forbidden lore and eldritch sights.
For this I fell, so glorious and far
To follow time through ruin and wreck
To behold the wonders of it all
And see all the new Star Treks.
A withered arm, hanging spent
From a muscled shoulder,
Its companion obscenely large:
Strength only serving to
Call attention to the wound.
I wonder - which arm is whole?
Searching, I find no words.
Needing options, we make
Making things, we find
Finding ourselves, we want
Wanting only our needs.
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