phantasmic glory: the last summer tryst

x. may be something about change
maybe the words aren't here yet but the idea is. i am always seeking a hidden meaning; the second definiton of "home", a new take on "memory". and in this constant seek perhaps i have lost the true meaning behind things. i tend to do that, i guess.

this thing where i look for things that were never there to begin with. just a faint visage, perhaps and the haunting beauty that is change.

i hate change/love memory, and yet i make this sharp hypocracy where i veer on the side of unknowledgable pursuit of absence.

xi. beauty & pain

i think. i want to. become something.

caterpillars climb trees and leaves in the hopes that the
promise of nutrients and life is worth
the effort. they perservere, for the most part.

they take a sharp, jagged, rest then become. they
have the spirit of becoming coursing through them.
they are the face of change. for once the first
oen becomes a butterfly, they become
unreachable.

maybe i am a caterpillar. but i am
stranded in water.

i cannot find sustanance to uphold myself
any longer.

xii. death is life, is death.
rot is inevitable for the
dark oak forest. eating
away, slowly.

and yet in this slow,
brutish death, the oak
is never older. it is
suddenly brimming
with youth.

and through its untimely
demise, there is a glimmer of
rememberance for it.

the acknowledgement of
its accomplishments,
its shed of pasts.

we are ever-memorializing,
never memorialized.

and it is haunting.

xiii. come mo(u)rning, it all shall wash away

i sense that we, (spirits) have no place here.
our ceremonial cre(m)ation is foreign, our rememberance
of which is gone now is done, dea(th)l(y) and pacts of
blood and t(e)ar.

for which we have come from, i am unsure. the crows
and ravens funeral of mo(u)rning comes each midnight,
sky darkened and ominous.

you can only see your own breath. and the night
is wrapping its (ghastly) hands around you.
it is trying to (chill the) warm(th).

it only wants (to take) life that flourishes.

but ghosts are dead in nature. perhaps this is
why i am intangible.

xiv. phantasmic glory
darken the memory; make it
our last beautiful moment because
it is all fleeting and far away.
it is far too soon to jump to memory
as a default.

becoming is a spirit in it of itself,
it is natureless yet functional,
the darkness that consumes but
only come mourning shall it slip
away into the nothingness.

we are intertwined, spirit and heart,
and this just may be time for change;
though i loathe to say so.

death is our life, change is our constant,
spirits as Seekers, Being in Fleeting.

xv. the last summer tryst

the run and jump of childhood start/stop
which is more like pick up/put down, we
are unified by the season, our sweat
pooling between our furrowed brows
as we try to make out the last line of
Matilda but we already know it by heart.
it is childish yet it is so visceral and there is
a large, deep, cutting feeling of sadness.

you have yet to leave but i know you must,
you are a free spirit, constantly Seeking and
searching, looking for those hidden meanings.

yet, i hate change but love you so much that i've
learned to love change, hate you. because you were
my constant, but now you are my irregularity.

the stray strand of thread that leaps off my collar,
which you pluck off for me.

you laugh; warm enough for the both of us.

our trysts ended there. the first leaf had already

fallen.

Your poetry skills always blow me away herb
The style and your wording and descriptions it's always just truly amazing! I loved reading through your poetry you did this week!

Awesome work this week, herb! I love your unique style... it really makes me think a lot and reflect, which is awesome. Nice work and I can't wait to see more!! <33