copper9lives

when you've a love in repose, all quiets are woven together. all worries and worships and weathering kept, cared, covered. every summer warms, every winter draws closer. and the silences sweeter than heaven.

    I have written my name a hundred times. A thousand.    Four letters, then a line to cross them out. Each mark of the pen is another strike, carving out everything I am, everything I was. I have seen my own name on paper so many times now that the word has ceased to have any meaning. This is the first stage of Re-vision. We edit ourselves out of existence.    Jean Jean Jean Jean Jean Jean Jea    I stop writing, and my neural implant sends a shock through the base of my skull. Not enough to create any lasting damage, just to make my muscles clench and my body recoil. Enough to create the negative feedback pattern in my subconscious th

The Amaranth No one now knows When the Amaranth was planted. We only know we must tend it. It has always been here Our old ones say, From their wise & creaking Conclave of well lived in bones And lovingly maintained wheelchairs That do daily attend our dear flower. It has always been here. [May it always be here.] At least they say that is what, On first touch of its petals, They were told as children. And yes, their old folks told Much the same, gathered Ago in giggle-gaggles of wonder, Much like we all had. [Much like we still do.] It may not look like much: Mottled, colorbland, wilt of a flower. It doesn't smell like much: Earth-rot