Memory in Interface

In  a black bedroom, in a land far away, and in bed
a soft irridescence lights up a blue grey heavy head
and the fingers are stroking a glass oh so darkly and gone
are the tiredness the world all around and only left one
But in ghostular form on this vast and rotating halo
lie the dead interactions of years used up and the hue
of the borders hem in all the feelings and empty them too.

An affection, attracting the deadened caress and the look
an emptiness hanging inside and a phantomly book
that should be there instead and a homely glow to the world
is taken apart and replaced with this placeless abode
But in place we move as the clocks are opened and set
and the words that are changing, cracked and raised up once again
Help us see that the meanings remain, with a rust of regret.

One sequence or two from a luxom ago have a sheen
of what we didn’t see then, but now can say might then have been
and it all calls up a realisation reluctantly raised
from the deep understanding that colours the background of days.
It’s memory, friends, it tears us all up into shreds
But there’s no big idea, no blanket, and that’s what upsets
of the many events, we forget most of them, and the rest
are spilled in intended rememberance of murky old sets.

Now it’s clear, all too clear, that we really ignore most of life;
a significant fraction of our lonely way is not bright:
and all this ignorance, dullness and shit makes you think
that world peace is refuted with one look through your message history…
How many friends lost and chances blown
simply by them being unknown to me then?
and I hate my past style.
Fuck this horrible zombie archive.
Stoic anathema.

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Send your life out in multiple directions like a galaxy shedding stars. Always come back to hope and try to thrive. All posts, (poems, stories, essays, etc.) here are composed by my hand, unless noted otherwise. Please ask if you'd like to use one.

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