galadriel.supernova

“i am a servant of the
secret fire; wielder
of the flame of anor.

you shall not pass.

(the dark fire
will not avail you,
flame of udun).

you shall not pass”

adapted from j.r.r.t.


i am light, fire;
the moment
that matter and antimatter
kiss
passionately.

my skin tingles
with oil and gasolene,
but he
is dead tinder,
enough to make

a beautiful conflagration.
and i cannot imagine
a cold life;

apathy's chill
is
death's kiss.
and I want
to live.

even if
each moment
is a
millstone,
i will
embrace
this
joie-de-vivre.

wait, what?

this isn't life,
or joy;

my skin is
charcoal,
the sky is black

diminished,
broken,
but not
cold.

the secret fire burns within.

pensées d'âge

now the leaves are falling faster;
i am a tired old man, hiding
in the skin of a white boy wondering
when spring will come.

it makes sense to believe
in the natural progression of time;

but i have seen the flames of summer,
flash-frozen in winter's acid rain
and left to be buried by autumn's leaves.

when will the roses bud?
when will i be young?

euclidean

trapped,
in paper paradoxes and questions,
used to teach, not wonder

tracing reflective polygons,
I wonder: how many cracks
make a heart,

and if it’d be better
to stay square.