Poets Pub - 2019 Poet of the Year Contest

To Mean, to Intend, as yet-- (emily-ada) Wk - 1

Our guardians have no faces,

Instead identified by their metallic hollowness,

Looseness hangs, solidified, set, slipping-

Stillness. Lest our lifetimes pass

Within a blink. One consuming, cosmic blink of a

moment --As yet undefined.

Raise a glass! We are all human passion and fear

Raging like river water under skies azure and blinking

At us. At each other--

All motion subsumed by the gaping mouth of the moment. A connection synaptic

And electric and everything and all who we are

Into nothing. It is too much to be contained,

(But then, time itself is parenthetic to contain us.)

Black holes and empty spaces draw out

Our individual glittered essences, magnetic

The liquid of the soul, for once seeing the light of day,

So bright to outshine the sun and moon--

Loathe to the vacuum of champagne and abundance.

Pretty days, in starlit spring, where dandelions fall

And we are all underwater.

Our lights lifetimes are vibrant potassium flares,

Shooting stars that must pass

But extend, magnificent, far further than even our minds

Do travel. And yet, perpetual

By the sands and greenery and hopes,

These faceless entities stare, eyeless reminders

And dare us to oppose this fact--

This enemy--absoluteness

Those who chide us of mortality, the moon of day,

Yet guard us from the knowledge of our fate.