Self-sufficient, lingering
Brilliance of times past
Our love shall us outlast
For love we on Earth were cast
Our love, no more, for our repast
Flock to feed
The spectres & ne'er-do-wells
The dwelling lever-pushers in
A cosmic coal room the
Manual doldrums,
Earthcrawler's bends
Who–uncoastal–has never seen
The ocean of Eternity
In which they swim,
Unseen the latent hem
Stuffed fit to bulst
Pulsing innards of
A down throw–
Spacefeathers We,
Superliminal seams;
Intelligent habit-complexes,
Breathing, churning dreams:
We are the ghosts,
The wisps of memory.
Notes
It's one of those nights where I can't readily fall asleep, so what better to do instead than pen some ponderous poetry. This poem explores the idea of memories becoming sentient, love in its grandest sense being the bedrock for our continued existence, the stupor of dense matter, and the hyper-pressurization of all the insane diversity of the universe, likening it to a cosmic comforter: fit to burst. Yet we are more than the stuffing, the seams, any of it. We are like unto those living dreams we call memory. We are memories ourselves, and our love will never be forgotten because we are self-similar with that very love. (The word "bulst" is a portamanteau of pulse/burst/bust. Just think of it as a different intonation of burst, softer in nature.)
@d-pend