
awakening none but dreamers sail these wine-dark skies roaming between island worlds wandering amongst the stars with some unknown helmsman at the watch for dawn in an unending night amid all the Milky-Way wraiths of ancient ammonites lost and undying within the gravity waves washing away everything but time craving a new creation or perhaps an end of this one in the belly of some Scylla or Charybdis but who can ever decide to wake from this dream
universal look within many eyes for tragedy ~~~~~ unassumingly is disguised within as hope providing a tool to cope with indifference ~~~~~ the universe throws out, as time’s sand gnaws the bones of longing, covetousness, ~~~~~ ghosts of ancient myths drifting against cosmic winds where darkness itself transcends the shining of stars ~~~~~ brief instances of meaning lonely in all of an empty vain universe ~~~~~ continuing its trifling with our brief lives and meaning itself derives hollow equations ~~~~~ that finally everything we know isn’t
desolation listening to the indifferent piping of an unseen flute as the black stars rise over Aldebaran’s misty spires and tragedy lingers unassuming, waiting resolute haunted by pain within the cosmic nebulas’ gyres as the black stars rise over Aldebaran’s misty spires even still echoing with haunted voices speaking lost words haunted by pain within the cosmic nebulas’ gyres and all of the dying worlds crumbling into crystal sherds even still echoing with haunted voices speaking lost words of stranger gods, cold and hard, gnawing on the bones of life and all of the dying worlds crumbling into crystal sherds all of their struggle and clinging earns them naught but despite of stranger gods, cold and hard, gnawing on the bones of life amidst the desolation that remains at the end of time all of their struggle and clinging earns them naught but despite ‘cause even at the end the gods themselves play at pantomime amidst the desolation that remains at the end of time and tragedy lingers unassuming, waiting resolute ‘cause even at the end the gods themselves play at pantomime listening to the indifferent piping of an unseen flute
Mark A. Fisher is a writer, poet, and playwright living in Tehachapi, CA. His poetry has appeared in: Silver Blade, Penumbra, and many other places. His first chapbook, drifter, is available from Amazon. His poem “there are fossils” came in second in the 2020 Dwarf Stars Speculative Poetry Competition.
I found the structure of the second poem very intriguing. Bang-expansion-collapse-bang-expansion-collapse. Nice.