facsimilie neptune, eons late.
sand cascades from my trembling hands. understanding washes over me, inventing a copy wasn’t the plan.
falling away is inevitable; inherited from the darkness of the dark. reflection is reality. reality is reflection.
on the shore, i cry out: how much of me is you? or how much of you is me? where did you draw the line in the sand?
i cannot follow the guiding path of the lighthouse. monstrous others block my way, confessing their ancient morbidness. the gods' domestication thrills them.
did i spread too much agony for you to absolve?
i am the object of blame. my wisdom blinds me. an opposing energy burrows itself within me. devotion as: resentment as: betrayal as: fear, pure and sacred.
wide awake, i outline a map of half-stars. they stare at me blankly. vulnerable almost desperate.
my silver-soul, praised and detested, basks in wine dark seas. thinking of death. if i ever knew solace, i do not recognize its face.
It seems unfair at times that poetry, one of the chief articulators of our deepest sentiments, should be required in the same breath to avoid sentimentality. But when you see it done, as it is done so well here; it takes your breath away 🙏