It Has Been Raining All Day And There’s Just Something So Wonderfully Refreshing About Watching Rain

Limerence is a word i have been looking for for a long time.

Queen of hearts, bows to the fools parade, insanity is a strange thing to take comfort in. ‘Mere blood and bone’ will lure you to depths of life/hell which human hand (only) must (only) touch. Vega of the lyre and bellatrix of the Orion in a dance of lights and life, bitterness sings a frayed melody to the hearthstone, listen to her woebegone voice in the soft refrain, fold away your letters and give away your life, for its not sadness but despair that requests it. Believe in phantoms, and one as old as yourself wants to touch your windows and watch its fragile hands pass through the glass. 

today has been very pleasant

Frosted glass between rain and life

I run my hand through the same old withered branches,

Drenched in the same old tired rain,

Far away the sunset harbours the lost gold of

Odysseys gone by, and if the wind were to hide

Within it some unremembered glow from the land

Of unknown secrets, the evening will gently

Whisk away the covers of the coquette,

And reveal to us a maiden under the bent willow,

Sweet as the apples from the orchards where our dreams

Were buried. She will beckon for the children

To gather around the fire and tell them the story

Of Zerah and Zulamith, whilst we twist the

Slender branches of the cherry tree into a throne

Fit for the brides of heaven to recline on,

Place at the altar a wreath of dead roses,

And hope that the silent fragrance borne to the shore

Is enough for the sea to give up the child

She drew to her heart in death’s storm.

…

And dare I tag anyone? @pollosky-in-blue perhaps you’ll like the story?

The Flowers (Learning to Love Again)

The human effigy leaves my brain Unfazed these days.

I have detached my self From its very nature Seeking inner quietude; an escape From the ever gnawing.

So did I become passionless, Desireless; void Of corporeal aching; Mechanical in visual interpretations.

Muscles, tendons, fat, flesh Bone structures, imaginarily Dissected; Witnessed apathetic; Unsignified, their radiation electromagnetic Reflected on photoreceptors.

Eyes Fill not with wonder, Solely perceive functionalistically.

Yet the only tragedy here Is that I’m not allowed to forget The existence of my own effigy.

This vessel, Requiring maintenance, Demanding Its own existence So pressingly I cannot withstand.

Basic wants, and basic needs Will so lead to desire’s revival.

I await its corruption Uneager And fatalistic.

For now, I cherish This unadulterated predisposition As I am the world’s Witness.

I will love the flowers instead.

Experiencing the enrapturement Of true beauty In all its innocence.

— 11-5-2021, M.A. Tempels ©

In the incomprehensible maze of personhood, somewhere in me there is a tangle whose causal knot is you.

“No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can’t put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better.”

— ERIN BOW