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And So He Died

And so he died
who, having lived so long,
had buried so many others
and never cried.

And so we stood there
powerless for words.
A person lost, indeed,
but memories and stories
so much more importantly
that day as well were buried.

And so we wept – some of us –
puny humans with no powers
to stop this erosion
of collective memory –

And so we buried him
who had outlived so many
but who was recalled in the end
all the same.

He never told us of his thoughts
so they have all been lost.

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The Broken Bond

They flicker in the moonlight,
two flames that steady burn –
the tides shifting and changing,
the wind blowing astern –
he’s one of those few people
who shift but ever burn –
and outshines all the others,
but never ever learn –
keep burning, flames, keep burning
the broken bonds out-burn –
what’s lost can’t be retrieved,
so leave it past, outworn –

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Warmth

I miss it – gentle warmth –
caress of souls, of sun and Earth –
a thousand tiny rays and swirls
from you to me and back again –
an endless, wordless, mindless
and thoughtless exchange;
a promise left unspoken
and a word that’s never said
cannot diminish this presence
of the things we had
together –
lingering a while
once you leave me;
your warmth a pleasant memory
as cold envelops me

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Herald of Destruction

I carry bricks and tile with me in my pockets whenever I go to the city. At least it seems so. Every time I return to my hometown I find an old house torn down – every time I go to the city I find a new one erected.
It feels oddly like a curse – as if I draw life with me, and subsequently cause decay in my home whenever I go somewhere else. And it is perhaps an apt metaphor. I do work in the city. I do live there. I do spend my money there and pay my taxes there, even though the city is an ungrateful host that cares nothing for me whereas my hometown would have known to appreciate my effort. It’s just that… I can’t find work in my hometown. Or on the entire island for the matter. The further you get from the city, the less need there is for programmers – and it’s impossible to make a living based on writing, however much I would have liked to.

Continue reading Herald of Destruction

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All There Is Left Now

An open, empty field
covered only by the grass
where something used to be –
well, something had to pass

I stare at the empty space
and cannot fathom this –
all that is left is emptiness

Passing shooting stars
and you’re asked to make a wish
though the thought of that wish
is as short as shooting stars –

I stare at this face
halfway expecting a caress
although all that is left now is emptiness

An open, empty field
where our time was often passed
in a building now torn down –
nothing is meant to last