A speck of dust,
Borrowing the mass
Of the sun
A lone candela,
Denying its basic
Luminance,
Converging
Into an aperture,
A variable slit,
An ardent kiss.
Dancing around
Black holes until they
Trapped themselves
Into the dense
Unknown.
(Note: this was written in 2017 during my MFA poetry class.)
Water ran out. The pipes were dry.
There was no telling whether
The faucet was close or open.
Just tightly turned clockwise or counter-
Clockwise. I still live there, waiting
For random rations or rain. Fooling myself
Of this impermanence. The plumbing
Brittle: from moss to dust to decay. I stay
And rot as the dirt engulf me. On lucky days,
I bathe. At my luckiest, I am clean,
And at my lowest, I write.
Ahead of the tapestry, a weaver
Does not philosophize about the thread.
Shed. Pick. Beat. Repeat. Not relishing
In completion, only fixating on
pushing the weft into place.
And yet, here I am, blocking
the stark sunlight with the promise
of a curtain. They lift and lower with
Control. Altered tension breaks
The monotony of color. Rhythmic but
Not musical. I celebrate at every beat,
Grin at each syllable that’s stuck
In the drafts formed by fleeting discipline.
Unable to finish. Unable to let go.
He was fast, smart and tried
To scribble through the great war
Scrambled through numbers
In desperation or drought he fought
For his wife or for science – I can’t
Tell the difference. How could he live
Her last few months speaking
In coded letters that required someone
Else’s eyes. And then whatever was to him are numbers was someone else incinerated on the other side.
No one there put a bullet through someone’s brain, at least a helmet could
Catch it. Eureka! meant death, instant,
Unknowing, or unfollowed by pain.
No one dares to light the third match.
Hello again! This is Dyne trying to write.
TY for reading: 🙈
Lose someone long enough, They
Become an idea – a pretty picture
Filtered from the chaos. Who would’ve
Thought that abuse would look so pretty
Through rose colored time. Curses can echo
As ghostly sonnets that bounce through
Decaying walls, which, if given the courage
I could even retrieve. All that I declared
As affection, you once took to fault,
Now seems like an oath I needed to keep.
When struck hard enough with the burden
of loss, the years could fool anyone.
Here’s my worst. Sift through
The remnants of any redeemable trait.
In frustration or for entertainment. Yet
You are here dismantling by the second
Through careful movements yet secretly hoping
For an explosion, a chance for the satisfying
sigh of “I told you so.” Only you would
Unbox complex equipment without flipping
through the instructions and curse when the parts
unravel at the slightest fluctuations.
My turn to say, “I told you so.”
Read if you’re
– tired of yourself making excuses
– not pushing yourself hard enough
Read if you’re:
– aiming for beauty after the storm
– looking for poetry in science
– looking for science in poetry
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