Objects without a story

Not lionized or accursed, not a source of wisdom or song

Objects without a story, unburdened with sentiment; devoid of outward interest, lacking a beginning and charm

Pitiable and stagnant, awaiting their decaying epoch, as no roving eyes pause upon them, disabused of desire

Resigned to dwine in their shadowed box unbidden

They abrade no memory’s surface, yet steadfastly collect the dust of ages, and ash of bridges

They neither twitch a lip to herald a smile, nor stitch a brow to presage a justified frown

They are nothing in the overwhelming nothingness

No one remains to inquire, no one qualifies to respond; unrecollected, she exists; an object awaiting

Begging of her breath to halt its march; pleading with the rose to wilt with her prose

Lest she be forced to remember herself

art: void of non-existence by Peterio

Perfect storm

Enveloped by nubilous darkness
Transfixing the lightning seams
Entreating, bolts for forgiveness
And a coalescence of solidarity

Deafening, the raucous thunder
Rendered silent by a lesser man
Listening to every transgression
Synchrony without and within

Consumed by torrential offerings
Pouring heart and passion forth
Inundated by tearful effluxion
Drowning in sympathetic remorse

Touched by the blossoming fingers
Embraced by the incalescent form
Consoling, the stentorian whispers
Welcomed into a perfect storm

Electrified by savage potential
Illuminating falsehoods and truths
Commingled, they the outcasts
Evanesced beneath brilliant dawn

art: overcast by len-yan

Pretty smiles, pretty walks

When he’s distracted – by a pretty smile
or pretty walk – when ego has distracted
id, he senses the existential moments

Moments when his evanesce into periphery
isn’t paramount; he’s inconspicuous in
a spotlight, living amongst the living

Not a shadowed pock at its center,
quaquaversally thrusting hands with
fingers of hands in fractal perpetuity

But a being like any other, with the
same chances and lack of chances,
iustitia and prudentia upon his shoulders

Then nature takes hold, quite without his
own intervention, rampaging id reminds
him who he is, what he is, how he is

Reminds him that pretty smiles seek
out pretty smiles and pretty walks travel
in vastly different circles

So his eyes fall upon his path, his heart falls
out of favor, his walk leads him tangentially,
and his id bears the only smile

He’ll exist in this life out of focus, and
remain off-center of attention, before he
finally disappears in a blur

art: Verklärte Nacht by Antonio Palmerini