Lore

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There are many things, I guess
That are better left in lore
Though I could have loved you less
I could never love you more
When our stories have been read
They will think us all a myth
For the chapters we have penned
And the plots we chose to twist

Stroke of Brilliance

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S-s-s-s-sorry but
I’m already a tiny bit
Unscrupulous and crazy
If you wonder why I’m maybe
Just a step or two from sanity
It’s tragedy and vanity
A parody of living
In a caveat humanity

I could have been an actor
In a comedy of errors
But my flaws were too apparent
And too flaw-like to be errant
So I turned into a painter
With a penchant for the distant
Looking for a stroke of brilliance
But my lines are incoherent

A Figure On The Path

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Suspended mid-ascent
Photic threads about her sylphlike form
Gossamer, such faint restraints
Casting glows on weathered paint
From interwoven skin and ink

Lips brushed almost red
More like blood and wine entangled
Lushly driven floral spangles
Stolen ministry of angles
Spoken softly like a stranger

Under charcoal cloak
Her corona piercing flesh to soul
Driven nimbly through my being
Studded figment I am seeing
Shapely alabaster dreaming

Pale by moonlit paint
Transcendental vapor drawn in shape
Floating weightless in this forest
Through a chime of ancient chorus
Called and drawn from air before us

Flesh-Like Machine

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Torn from my warm tender chest
Beating but dashed into pieces
This flesh-like machine
Sputtering badly and bleeding
Like rainwater wrung through a sponge
Submerging my lungs

And I am forced to take it out
Set it to the side
In favor of cleaner energy
Generated from another source
With fewer working flaws
Devices less unpredictable

Suited for calm atmospheres
And warm climate shifts
This thing from my chest
Is fairing quite poorly in cold, I fear
Surely this calls for drastic measures
Synthetic parts or performance enhancements

Relics eventually fail
Poorly constructed, I suppose
In life of more modern assumptions
It was destined for the grave
But this flesh-like machine
Is hard to disarm

Cogs still turning
Like involuntary twitches triggered
From a severed appendage
It struggles to survive
But only the strong prevail, I’m told
All things must die

And it is not so strong tonight
At least that is how it appears to me
There on the table
Unable to awaken or rise
“A tragic waste it seems”, I think to myself
As I pull the plug