In the machine,
My sanskrit muse -
Dead languages
We used to know to speak,
Whose cryptic
Presence has me typing
Out long forgotten epitaphs -
Poems, prose all my pretty
Bloody, weeping words;
Fingers dance more these
Days with black keys than
Strands of hair or lovers ears -
All the pretty girls,
I caught and consumed
Trying to chase away
The memories and taste of you.
Well they still call
Unaware that this is the winter
And they were summer and fall.
Because hearts have roots and
They burrow deep,
The crown of leaves may change
But those tendrils still seek
Nourishment in the deep
Of once fertile ground
Even when days grow short
And the woodlands bleak.
So quiet now, listen to the wind
The ghost that howls,
Heralding great storms that
Rip oak and willow from earth,
Cast into the sky,
That once lovely voice within
With beauty that once wove
Gossamer through summery dreams
Become the shriek
Of forlorn medians and tundra,
The great white waste
Of lush lands, everything dies,
Kings, kingdoms, language and lust -
Everything risen up in fury
Is laid to rest in peace and solemnity.
The phantoms that cling,
Haunting bone, soul and memory
The angels and demons that seep
Out of haunted fingers onto
Computer screens,
Hoping others wandering
In this vast and great obscurity
Understand words written
In arcane emotions,
The story of roots, ghosts
Wind and bone.
Poems scratched into fallen trunks
Half buried in fresh fallen snow -
Sign posts to find your way home,
Whomever that may be,
Even as you're lost in the cold
Know that though you may be fallen
Just beneath your feet
Are all the humbled trees toppled
By once warm spirits in the biting breeze-
Everyone who ever dared to venture out
From blinking screens and glowing hearth
Has lost more than they could have known -
You aren't alone.
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