Linger

For we are boundless, endless
Breadthless and breathless
These waves of potential finding the furrows of the world around us
We have everything, and just enough

Enough to choose our own way,
But a single way
The stoic poise of choice
And the staggering weight of the costs
Things never gained but somehow lost
But only if you let it linger

For from our finger
We carve our own way
Fingertips sanded free of identity given
And etching our fingerprint upon the world.
Let this linger

The path you’ve paved and the place where you rest your feet upon it
Let this linger
The peaks and fissures, kissed by time and turned to silken dunes
Let this linger
We were made to be infinite
But meant to be eternal
And may contentment linger

For drowning in the breadth of what could have been, is truly the end
The tide rises,
Furrows turn to wrinkles,
And are finally uncarved
Awaiting the next one to make their mark

-Galwyn

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Aorta

Wound frail aorta
Pulse far from ataractic
Emphatic, my loveless anorexia
Pathetic, my soundless aphasia

Rend this troubled mind from better times
An imposition unwanted
Participation without consent
Never there, yet omnipresent

Euthanize me with a dream
Humanize this ghastly scheme
Banshees wail, spectors stay
Spectate the funerals, the song’s decay

Aortic valve, this organ’s scream
Shrieking pipes emphasizing
Wound frail aorta
Sort of a spring
With clock run silent, never to sing

-Galwyn

Deluge

Admit this romance as it rains
Atop windshields and windowpanes
Words clung to glass, transparent veins
With pittering lyrics, soft refrains

Don’t wring the deluge from your hair
Sink in the loving, leave it there
In tangled knots without a care
There on your mind, and everywhere

-Galwyn

Drenched and Distorted

The rain won’t seem to stop falling here
And though I complain
I suppose it isn’t what’s stopping me
From seeing you

Perhaps it’s through these bedewed eyes
Or these grieving windows,
That I take this time to reflect –
Though the pane is rattling
Drenched and distorted

Suppose this rain could wash clean
Rather than chill our skin
And not flood the asphalt with dingy sweat
Wouldn’t that be so poetic?

Yet words aside
Things are as they are
This water has had many lives
Broken smaller then one could imagine
Lifted higher than ever before
And dropped
Sometimes I worry we’re doomed,
To a similar cycle

You’re my oxygen ripped free
Leaving me bitter and hazy
As if I might combust
But nothing feels worse
Than guilting you, over me

A wound only heals as it dries
And this goes for you
Yet every time the evening patters
It reminds me of what matters
I fear for the thunder of knowing it’s you

-Galwyn