version 3 the absence blank, the many reaching ways -- but pictures, pleadings fail. meanwhile, scent brings back realities as tangible as touch. hands together in the dark, saying words we don't really believe, trying to overcome a pain more present than our memories of love seem real. we chase a passing mist, or a ripple on the lake, or a careful breeze: we humans are but smoke, or maybe we blaze until then. seasons become canyons, and we try to contain each, but only with lies: the memories we carry are just the shells of the spirits once here in body. like singing monks in a silent monastery using whatever technology we have, we reach out to others -- but find only the quiet dark of deep blue grief
version 2 so many ways we try to raise the blank: but often words and begging fail, while scent says ‘life’s more sharp than it’s conceptual.’ then in the darkened space, we reach our hands, and mumble incantations we don’t get, the pain-of-now more than the love-from-then. these drippings that we chase: a passing mist, a ripple on the lake, a careful breeze for human’s smoke, apostrophe or not. across as many canyons as can fit into those wide containers we call lies, we carry mem’ries, sweating shells at best. it’s only plainsong, passed from hand to fist along the monastery walls of tech and back into the quiet dark of blue
version 1 so many ways we try to raise the dead: but often words and pictures fail, while scent says ‘life’s more real than it’s conceptual.’ then in the darkened space, we join our hands, and mumble incantations we don’t know, the pain-of-now more than the love-of-then. these vapors that we chase: a passing mist, a ripple on the lake, a careful breeze for human’s smoke, apostrophe or not. across as many aprils as can fit into those wide containers we call lies, we carry mem’ries, spirit shells at best. it’s only plainsong, passed from cell to cell along the monastery walls of tech and back into the quiet dark of grief
