You’re a journey with speed bumps in place to appreciate this town, you’re a Sunday with a reminding hangover not weighing me down,
you’re a multitude of imperfect perfections, you’re a galaxy of future photographic collections.
Our souls were forged in a collapsing star
billions of years ago, I for you, I for you.
My life, alone, a pastiche that seemed so noir, our days, together, will always be too few.
To have and to hold, to never forget, to never regret
that January day we met: six years a fairytale
guiding each other down the trail
to here, now, where I take thee, and I take thee on this longest day of the year, the brightest day of my life,
hovering in a celestial sphere,
to be my husband. To be my wife.
I fill my lungs with embers of pain,
scratch you into memories with the might of kings,
interlock my hands in vain.
Days progress as endless fractals,
one after one of immaterial battle:
a trajectory clean as shrapnel.
I saw a world that might provide:
a meaning found, at once highly prised,
a meaning drowned, at once belied.
If I could douse only the times
that truly deserve extinction
We are a clacking cacophony of a bag filled with pearls,
we are inveterate asymmetries of fantastic worlds,
we are an unpredictable future that slowly unfurls,
we are boys in a long-forgotten playground chasing girls,
we are the unremarkable window stains left by whorls.
Hither all greys, thither all colour:
this universe has been one of squalor,
with wits unlike swords ever duller
and, somewhere, one last disused muller.
We are but made of stardust that each night swirls
through dimly lit streets in small towns, curls
up to young souls and away all the innocence it hurls.
You bleed the night sky bright,
swallow the moon-covering cumuli
like cotton candy on a hot summer’s day.
How wasted your wings must be,
carrying the burden of our specters;
how sleepy your mind must be,
lending all your wishes to us.
You quench the rain with sunlight,
dismantle the shadow-casting nimbi
like a toy after a prurient afternoon.
To walk through intimate places, deserted of familiar faces,
is to remember all the years of drinking and laughing with peers.
Who am I if not the one walking beside you,
what if not eyes tinged in your smile each day anew,
if not sighs permeated with your optimism so refined?
Who am I if not the one repaying you in kind,
what if not a hand in yours suffused with immutable peace of mind,
if not a soul filled with blue skies imbued in morning dew?
To meander following traces, memories of warm embraces,
is to regret teasing how one day we’d move on without any tears.
I am become Void, the emptiness of our hearts.
Hold me firmer, halt my mind churning, murmur
the story of how we nurtured our love.
How we went from great fervour to a soul merger,
with the inevitable always lurking, growing
each time we jerked around and shirked
arguments about increasingly irking quirks.
We’re squirming, twisting and turning,
cursed to serve our own thirst only.
We’re performers, transformers oscillating
in between mourning, smirking, playing with dirks.
Sometimes I yearn for the past,
your face in turn is always stern.
If only we could learn to leave,
discern a less burking future –
if nothing else it’s what we’ve earned.
Besser spéit ewéi ni, an no enger hellewull technescher Schwieregkeeten an aneren Excusen, geet ët an onser zweeter Episod ënnert anerem ëm déi aarm Leit vun der CSV, déi elo just nach Deputéiert sinn, an ëm Netflix, déi probéieren d’Telé vun der Zukunft ze ginn.
Den Intro ass wéi d’leschte Kéier och schon vum Kevin MacLeod.
Fast forward, northward, shoreward to an altered altar:
the menacing welcome, the threat of a reckoning
has haunted me throughout a battle continuously uphill.
Yet now here I stand, silent and still,
ready to steer my soul into a new constellation,
knowing with this jump my beginning will be lost like Thracian.
But I will remember this blinding irradiation:
the moment I finally synced with this universe’s creations,
the day I scarred the face of god
and burnt all the lands from Jerusalem to Riyadh.
She glides so quietly through dreams,
spreads her colourful wings gracefully:
brush strokes for a work of art.
Children’s footsteps follow her with ease
as she circles these hibernal fields
carrying all their wishes in her heart
and all their sorrows in her song.
Infinite and endless is her mind,
her love as universal as it is kind,
forever forgiving for that is her truth:
bring her sadness and she will soothe.
Find her at night but leave her at dawn,
meet her at morn and she will move on.