Constellation Blues

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Little noises, hidden in the corner
A mental image of a nonexistent person
Wishing to inhabit your physical beauty

Why yearn for the fake aesthetic
The personality destroys the image
Better to stay quiet

Allowing time to pass, the chessboard unmoving
Little noises, turning into biases
Questioned then ignored by the unmoved masses.

An endless mental vomit of ideas
hack attempting to undercharge
for another’s thoughts.

Elixir of fortune,
looking back at the
tortures of infinite wait.

A desire to fly
along the winds into the
vast lands of mystery.

Meaninglessness

Doing things on my own is kinda worrisome, at times I want to ask others for their insight.
After further consideration, I realize the problem and I can’t trust them anyway.

Being alone, I often recalled fragmented scenes from my life.
The same lonesomeness during those shattered pieces.
Like the meaninglessness of the far-off stars.

Then a need to reassure myself the past won’t repeat.

The memories continue to flow through my mind:
A siren’s call.

Chasing towards an appointment, towards an empty arena, towards echoing hallways where you’ve never been.

A memory cuts through the faded sunlight, everything stands still.

A smiling face, preferring to not interrupt like the wind.

Affirmation and a chance to return to an empty future, echoing notes of different mistakes.

Can’t take back words i never say.

Only until 1am

Sharp cuts from the light of stars
A cold wind and constant glances backward
Into the darkness, avoiding the chasing trails.

Feeling misunderstood with every word
And wishing to go home when the stories are over
Meandering journey, only to waste my time.

Walking on the world’s clearest ice
And wishing to see his face when the ghosts are gone
His face, or a memory, both the same reflection.

Staring into the Sun.

Why is it a memory I can’t forget; why do I follow it?

The blinding sun and my willingness to stare into it.
Before only trusting in finding happiness in the light of faraway stars.

The day like today, was a day like then…
When as a ghostly clock, I followed and hoped to predict your arrival and disappearances.

The black violets, the boy against the glass.
The sun above and the maze of ugly hallways.

Today, a memory again.
And again.

Hello friends, I’m starting to worry we might not win.

a lost letter

memories skimming across the milky way
ageless threads pulled out
a voiceless glance into the darkness

the wait is over
and a moment of reunion

a smile flashing
after years of isolation
against the wall
in the crowded room

the wait is over
the beginning of happiness.

The Death of Butterflies

…in a slow, prolonged, torturous death they had struggled in agony for hours, days, perhaps weeks. And they were the children of Ziedonis [the god of Spring, literal translation: blossom time]: flowers that had come to life and separating from their stems had risen to the sky. But then tormenting man had come and ended that in the most brutal manner. Is there a more unmerciful being than man? I shook with sobs, and I felt as if someone had grabbed my shoulders and was shaking my whole being. Was the Ziedonis himself that now cried with my tears? Had not he taken me by the hand and led me here so I could see what kind of injustice was being done to him? Didn’t he want to tell that behind all beauty hides death, suffering and dread? I too felt as if I had a pin stuck through my heart and I would have to bleed slowly, perhaps my whole life long… What I felt was not only my personal pain but the pain of all nature with which we are organically bound.

And quickly gathering the butterflies in her apron, she tossed them into the blazing furnace. Sudden death was far better than prolonged torture, she reasoned, and she went out to accept her punishment.

-The Latvian writer, Aspazija. Translated by Astrida B. Stahnke.

You are completely free of affectation:
silent you sit, watchfully tense,
just as silence itself pretends to nothing
on a starless night in a fire-gutted city.

Consider that city–it is your past,
wherein you scarcely ever managed to laugh,
now raging through the streets, now sunk in self,
between your insurrections and your calms.

You wanted life and gave it all your strength,
but, sullening spurning everything alive,
this slum of a city suffocated you
with the dreary weight of its architecture.

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