marginally enigmatic

A Lost Flame

Have you seen my flame?
It burned bright in the bleak world,
but now you have it.



What was at first glance
a dragon turned into a
conquering of self.


Words? They oft deceive.
Feel the hymn, as it pulses
through a divine soul.

The Yellow Boy

Sat the yellow boy,
paralyzed by gripping fear
of a cruel world.


I can understand the manic state that some writers enter when they’re desperate to put words on the page. It’s the only way to immortalize what you’re feeling or thinking at that exact moment in some tangible way, lest it be lost forever. These words I’m writing now are a product of a moment that was triggered by various external factors that could likely be replicated, but it’s extremely unlikely the mood would strike to write again, and odds are astronomically low that it would be the same string of characters. Because of this, I felt some desire for them to be saved. By writing these words, I’m immortalizing something– that’s for sure– but that something is not what I’m feeling in this moment.
I don’t know what that something is.
The best I can describe it is perhaps a symbolic representation of a moment in time. Both literally and figuratively, that’s what this writing is. It’s what all written language is, I suppose. I could use descriptive terms to describe my surroundings and even tell you what song I’m listening to, but that wouldn’t be interesting to read. Or would it? It appears boring to me only because it’s lacking in novelty. On your end, what I am experiencing in this moment is a sea of endless possibility that is given form only by your imagination and my scarce use of words.
If I’m deliberately not grasping for an accurate description of the physicality of this moment, then what exactly am I grasping at?
What is the most real purpose of this, or any writing?
Maybe it’s only to get the reader’s attention– everything else is interpretation.

Addendum: Not all interpretations created are equal.


My pale, wretched character
feeds off greatness;
sustained by an unreachable
ideal of who I could be,
but still the embodiment
of inadequate action.

I take a deep breath
and admire that greatness,
wondering if you see
what I see;
with inspiration,
I move towards the ideal –
but only a single step.

In these moments
when I become more than I am
by looking at you,
we are equal;
so quickly the illusion

Course of Dreams

I could never be the past me,
as of yesterday that ship sailed;
witnessable here are cracks, see –
once wondrous colors now have paled;
still, strength remains within the beams,
and atop the mast a flag flies true;
ever set on the course of dreams –
hard at work, this lonely crew;
seemingly endless exhausting toil,
held together by a single reason;
to finally set foot on heaven’s soil –
maybe I will arrive next season.

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