A poem to honour the dead Photo by Ilie Barna  on Unsplash In the caverns of memory not far from the smiles and exuberance of dancing youth, an image of you smiles in grayscale hues, fresh faced and hair curled—captive to a history  which fears above all else to make itself known. When you were gone, your memory became our pain. We didn’t know  what you were, so we bleached your clothes and stitched in labels which caricatured your humanity as disease—an attempt to conceal th

Photo by James Kelly-Smith on Unsplash I used to think these hills were dead: parched and sheep worn, grass barely clinging to an undercarriage of moss, and the ponies  digging for foals in bottomless pools  of placid aether, where the peat bog bubbles our carbon half life. Stonedust leavens in clouds as I stamp my way, and their hooves kick up peals of tumbled stones  in the crinkled haze of this effervescent dew— there is a bleating on the wind, clouds raking in the wool,

Photo by Shawn Rain  on Unsplash The motive is to dissolve— to find in the folds of creeping linen or by spreading out as airborne dust  some refuge from the black mass born of this insurrection towards innocence which unstitches him from his shadow creating a point of inflection where  he loses sight of life as he dances over walls flickering like effervescent candlelight to slip from the slumbered grip  of a tyrant acting out his broken machinations so that the curtained ro

In the background static  fractal infinities buzz and thrum as time bent through the senses of others, seen through the eyes of above looking down on lives as they live themselves throughout our many incarnations,  unearthing surprise whenever reality binds  to some semblance of recognition, as even the solace of memory distorts in the weft of years—  bringing together the lurching tears  that split this mind as it tries to weave  the movements of a world  into itself: seekin