Commentary on a verse I found
in ruins beside a winding path
I.I must write the verse I wish to read;
nowhere is the tale in yellowed print
awaiting my discovery in some nook —
I must shape the line and bind this book.
Meand'ring through the fogs of noxious brain:
intoxicating edge of the insane
where phantoms lurk and cry out through the mist
and one soul mourns where none but them may list.
A sad, bewildered child spurned by fate
with hollow hunger — thirsty for the sate:
illusioned lack to fill — diversions new,
with all their shining skill — what is the use
of novel permutations on the plane?
II.Love is ever new;
turn from bitter rage.
I look now to you —
fill the fervent page
with feeling true and deep:
heartbreak, do not keep
cold-hid within a vault,
firm-locked from every touch.
Forgive each past assault
and know, be sure all such
contortions shall unwind
and traceless — waxlike, smooth
will melt each brittle bind:
life unexpected, soothe
and make you new again.
Thus reads the journal I found in these ruins
where thick strands of wild herbs eavesdrop on all,
and casting long shadows, old wicked trees gnarl
to creak with the cackle of shifts in the breeze.
I wonder what ailing one penned these rough lines
and pined here for meaning in anguish of night?
And what tongue angelic gave tender response:
unworried, pretenseless — imperfect, though apt —
and did this lone writer find solace in them?
images and words by @d-pend
created for HIVE on March 25, 2021.
images are original photographs taken with iPhone 8+,
processed with Deep Dream and edited in Final Cut Pro.