All of my online activity serves the function of informing my reality with waveforms familiar to mySelf, to stabilize my own sense of presence in a cacophonous conglomerate of Minds.
Prose
Clocking
What age? What place? What power?
Marching acquisitions of time, placing markers through bone,
Counting the points.
Herald softly the falling rain,
Shower well the tired minds,
Sound halos in broken crowns,
Open daily the arching colours.
Happenstance happens periodically, made predictable by observation.
I saw the dance of puppeteers and balked, thinking my time was yet to come,
But here it is, the marching shadow line.
Play serenely the tune of memory,
Follow whimsically the tide of heroes,
Swim lazily into shallow pools,
Consider nothing of the tugging pause.
I find it, sitting heavily in the pit of sorrowful gazing,
Too many tomorrows to find the day when beginning ended.
I hunt it as a switch through buzzing burrows, always behind, sometimes beside.
You saw it and left me with it solitary.
Now I too am past weary of its presence.
Finding you to undo the doing of your flavour has been my object.
Here I leave you, find yourself.
© Sherri-Lee Lavender, 6 May 2019.
The God of Man
It was Wasted on You I think
The air I breathed when singing your praises
left a cold burn in my lungs
Which lingers in feelings
Of lost expectation
Of a genuine reply.
As a god above pantheons
You are assigned a greatness
Without having proved that your
Unnamed name has the authority to
Be more than an ideal
More than a collar
More than a Magician’s curse.
Your reign hurts the people
Who would gain more blessed fortune
From their own thoughts gathered
In the point of a stick than
From your cryptic whispering
In the minds of men trained in cruelty
Who keep your name on their tongues
Whilst blood mists the air.
You are the Hydra
The many-headed
At war with yourself
Doomed to destruction
And I hope to watch your
Funerary pyre light the lower
Heavens as our ships sail for home.
Was it Enough?
Was it enough
When I curated my words
When I foraged for honey
Instead of treating my burns
Was it enough
When I loved on your smile
When I smiled back
And forgot for a while
Was it enough
When I hid what was frail
Did you like my performance
Did you follow my trail
Was it enough
Do you hunger for more
When I say I have nothing
Do you slam shut a door?
Published on: Threads @between.speak
Date: 10/06/2024
This prose was inspired by how I felt about some social media interactions, not about any particular interpersonal exchange. However, I could totally say that it is relatable to some person-to-person interactions as well.
Seed
Drifting, an ungerminated seed;
Swept by forlorn winds over concreted soil.
Imagination fabricates the merry orchestra
of a rock-strewn stream,
Tricking hope of close rewards to bloom,
In a mind left fallow;
Unused by Possibilities.
The sudden collision of funnelled air
leaves the aging seed caught on loose stones;
A quiet nook of uninterrupted solitude,
Where begins the journey of returning to soil.
Solar Eclipse
Unfortunate; the clinging mist of unforgotten Yesterdays.
When will I dwell in a still circle of Today with unspoiled circumference; a moment not tempered by bone-written memory?
I could write You out; draw You from beneath my skin with flashing cursor prompt on a dark themed page,
But You replicate in virus infected cells – unwilling receptacles of Your widely imposed Personal Story.
I can move the frosted Mirrors of Your remembrance;
put them beyond My sphere, turned away;
And find them faced about again on another Sun-rising,
like Solar Eclipse sunflowers of sparse leaf and undeterred programming.
I could pull You out – both stalk and root, yet there is a beauty in
the airless blood claret of Your many-petalled blooms.
And I, trained to look for Life in any decaying pile, am reluctant to lose this interrupting Presence of Your hex-coloured pixilation.
All Todays arrive as repeating blocks of basic text, amongst which Your imprint remains the greater Spectacle,
And I, motivated by instances of kaleidoscopic information,
am yet to master staring at a monotoned wall.
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