Listens to Lo-Fi on her phone,
Admiring the nighttime lights of the city
Through streets blanketed with snow
Where unknown treasures are buried.
Cigarette to her lips
Alongside that sensation around her face,
The teeth of wind,
Is all the satisfaction she can take.
To have hung on,
Lived to see another illuminated night,
Stress momentarily forgotten
Despite the punishing nature of her drive
Is worth rewarding.
She needs something, after all.
Demands a moment that’s enjoyable.
Dawn spawns the first shadows
As she reluctantly remembers herself,
Retires behind her bedroom windows,
And waits until she can escape again.
The houses rotted,
The roads cracked and slowly eroded,
Power lines toppled,
And trees retook the place of grass.
Lives had finished,
Completed, but never replaced,
Leaving everything behind
For the mildew and quiet to claim.
Everyone had gone,
And they left a fragmented remembrance,
The ruins of excess
And poverty adapted into shadow palaces.
When everyone goes
I only hope there will be ghosts,
So someone could see
The beautiful remains of our failures.
The arguments died,
All sides are eventually silenced.
Grief lost her way
Without any survivors to guide her.
Indecisions without resolve,
Like half-empty beds and unfinished poems
Revert back to objects
Removed from anxiety and desire.
Landscapes of thought
Retaining echos without sound.
When everything falls
I hope to see what happens then.
To see how unknowable
Our intentions and dreams become.
I can’t afford bed sheets or makeup.
Beautified dreams, somehow, still come easily.
Even in poverty, the luxury of abstraction
Soothes me daily, in depression or inspiration.
Streetlights on snowy nights
Hold more potential than money or connections.
Shadows in the urban landscape,
More real than set ideals or purchased thrills.
Somewhere is an inevitability
Waiting to be dreamed into vibrant shapes.
Magenta rain against black skies,
Sleeping bodies forgetting their encroaching doom.
I can’t afford bed sheets or makeup,
But in my mind, I repose against splendid fashionings.
The faintest glimmer of peace and satisfaction
Awakes, and gives me space to keep imagining.
If I could manipulate my own soul
I would become so many other things;
A character in my favorite books,
A God of my imagined mythos,
An active observer of human history,
An Angel of guidance and/or death,
A spirit floating through endless space,
A designer of perpetual dramas,
A stranger in the realm of dreams,
A composer of symphonies of light,
A voyager through heaven and hell,
A state of being beyond space and time,
An immortal Goddess ruling empires,
And a mortal shell that made peace with death.
If I could manipulate the reality of my existence,
Would the meaning of anything really change?
Maybe the world is a game.
If it is, then death is just the goalpost.
The timer. The only real rule.
If it is, then dying is our final score.
Working may be desperate.
Wealth or happiness may make a difference.
We all subsist strategically,
Gaining or lacking in different amounts.
Totality pressures us
To decide which pursuits prove worthy
Of conscious individuality
While it’s ours to compare and contrast.
It’s just a poem.
Writing, but we know it’s a burden.
Words are ours to choose
Until space confines us to a stop.
“Confront the facts!
You’ve hated yourself,
You’ve lived a lie!
You’re not what you present!”
All persona is presentation,
It’s all a lie anyway
So what does it matter?”
“Represent someone else
And hide from what you really feel.
Is this what you really want,
Miss Freedom of Expression?”
“I’ll express what I choose.
My secrets are my own,
And does anyone really care
What I feel inside?”
“What does it matter
If anyone gives a damn?
What satisfactions comes
From dishonest expression?”
I was naked, around twilight,
Covered in dirt and leaves
Having been buried alive,
By life buried.
A crawling mass of moist earth
Composed of dismembered deaths,
Colonies of feeding decomposers,
And my own fragile ego.
I must have sunk
From grace down to dirt
And been planted face-down,
Neglected and self-misused.
I suppose I slept
Because I dreamed vividly
In colors more vibrant and varying
Than I ever felt before.
I’d visited myself,
Seen the spectrum of my being
Like so many blends of fantasy and memory
Shifting perpetually within.
Only after waking
I recognize the implication
Of finding myself alive,
Head-first buried in a hole.