The Cycle
(Elegy)
A lifetime or two
Finding, taking, thinking, making
Little souvenirs of the brain
Fill the pool of recollection
A currency called time
Saving, spending, stealing, lending
In this haze of distraction
We search for meaning
A slow, sinister change
Fleeting, falling, losing, stalling
The pain of this process
Passed down to those who remain
A face so unfamiliar
Wishing, wanting, hoping, haunting
Faint echoes of a distant past
Like the mind’s own vanishing act
Reason and Ration
(Prose Poetry)
The boy resented the abstract. Modern art and millennial poetry felt like senseless noise. There was comfort in clarity, and symmetry tasted infinitely sweeter. He favoured the simplicity of straight lines, even numbers, and flat surfaces. Nothing was better than the perfect equation of a right angle.
He regarded spirituality with a particular disdain. Was faith anything more than a distraction? Mythology was just that—myths. Fantasies. He longed for others to embrace reality—fact over fiction, conviction over doubt. The texture of silk in his hands, the paralyzing brightness of the sun—these things were tangible. He had complete certainty in his perception. Why dwell on the immaterial? He subscribed to a singular truth, some universal oneness in experience. Conceptualizing a world beyond the current one seemed disrespectful to the gift of life.
His temperament defined him: impatience and the kind of ignorance only youth can possess. He retained the skills to create and imagine and feel but chose to employ them pragmatically. He was endlessly critical and dismissed emotions as unproductive. Dreams were mere tools of the unconscious waiting to be brought into actuality. There was little time to get lost in escapism. He believed in hard work, cause and effect, the power of intention. Practicality was not just preferable; it was paramount.
He clung to his beliefs. It was a miserable existence marked by loneliness.
Then—the arrival of adulthood. A chance encounter. A shift in perspective.
He fell foolishly, wildly, absurdly in love.
Lone Freeze
(Haiku)
The depth of winter
Solitude frozen in ice—
Crack, thaw, new presence