C’est La Vie

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I remember

the fire and the ice and the winds and the waves

but I’ve forgotten

her smile

the way he used to laugh;

such is life, they say

but time

has carved away at the cliff face of my memories,

the same way sand carves away at the stones upon the seashore.

 

I remember

everything we left unspoken

but I’ve forgotten

the words we spoke, under the unfaithful stars.

I remember the ending,

but not how it all began,

because such is life,

or at least that’s what they say.

 

I remember

my life in symphony with yours;

such was our life, together –

and such is how it ended –

two divergent paths,

having met at a crossroads,

inevitably returning to their separate ways –

an ill-fated love,

doomed from the start;

but such is life.

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Love, Vanquished

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“Why don’t you write a joyful poem?”

S’il vous plait,” she says to me,

“Poetry”- a subject about which we have spoken comparatively little,

“Is mournful by nature.”

 

I am struck, as if by lightning,

Not by her seeming revelation

About the nature of the artform in question,

But by the formality of her please.

 

She is one of those dying breed of people –

The ones who understand with brutal intimacy

The difference between te and vous,

The ones who use language like the fine edge of a blade,

Ruthless, remorseless, ravenous,

Knowing just where to wound –

How to throw salt upon one’s soul

So it will strike those pulsing, jagged wounds,

How to wield a fire, wild to the last,

And tame it.

 

I am silent,

And she switches back to English,

But I cannot speak,

Not in one language, nor in two.

 

Poetry,

I’ve found,

Is, indeed, mournful by nature,

Not unlike the art of love.

Shadow Land

shadow

 

She is pleased

On inauspicious days,

Days when the sun rises so red

That you’d swear it’d been painted

With the blood of ten thousand cowards.

 

She rejoices

In the sharp, salt tang of treason;

She’s a city-slicker, picker of fights;

For her, valor is not a good enough reason,

And youth is the only worthy season.

 

She’s the one who sways our hips,

Licks our lips, sips

Her coffee as her eyes meet yours,

And she is like the moon,

Bright and bare,

And it is she

With whom you fall hopelessly in love;

I sometimes wonder –

Will you settle with me,

Or would you rather I surrender,
Wholly,

To she?

Genesis

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I come from the forest

Where dreams go to die,

And the smell of loam,
Deep and dark,

 

Disguises our every secret;
Where the silence,

Impenetrable as the fortress along the shore

Where impossible wishes spawn,

Swallows every sound.

Devil May Cry

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The Prince of Hell was wearing a crown of thorns,

And the fruits of the tree had similarly fallen, ripe and round and ready,

Upon the fertile soil of an Eden in sublime abandon,

And Lucifer’s heart, hollow by day,

Had drunk deeply of the dusk light

In a world upon which the sun never set,

But now, as night bled into day,

He wondered how to strike his devil’s bargain with the unmerciful clock,

Contemplated why so many philosophers

Had wondered how many angels can dance upon the head of a pin,

When it was so clear to him

That he was the only one who would ever be made to do so;

“The Devil made me do it,”

He’d say, delirious,

As another night passed,
Dreamlessly.