Deus, Ex Machina

I have this dream, where  
Everyone I love  
Returns to me  

Your name is gone,  
Its fine  
Bones,  
Its once  
Intractable  
Electric  
Shadow,  
Has been  
Erased,  
From memory  
 
Time marches  
On, with  
Me,  
In it’s  
Arms,  
Gazing  
Back,  
Through the  
Car’s  
Rear  
Window  
 
A boy  
Who lost  
His father  
 
And I,  
Am the quiet  
Little house,  
Your still  
Frame  
Architecture, now  
Supports  
 
And we are reduced to this  
Reminiscence,  
Of anchoring  
Colors,  
 
Your bronze face,  
Defiantly  
Raised,  
Against the  
Blue  
Waves  
Crush,  
 
Your white face,  
Beneath  
A white  
Sheet  
 
And I,  
Am a keeper  
Of minutes,  
Counted  
On my  
Fingers, in  
Childlike  
Revolutions,  
Lose my place, and  
Start again  
 
A man  
Who lost  
His beloved  
 
Shepherd  
Of broken down  
Moments, only  
Sun spots,  
Of your once  
Radiant  
Sphere,  
Remain  
 
I am an ear  
Marked  
Journal,  
Titled,  
An aeon  
Of episodic  
Memory,  
 
Its fog  
Lights  
Fading,  
In my poor  
Care  
 
Somewhere in the heart’s  
Closely  
Guarded  
Mystery, I  
Wake, in  
Some arisen  
Agony,  
Of inarticulate  
Woe  
 
Feral,  
With some desperate  
Message,  
Lost,  
To dreams  
 
I drive tent  
Pegs into the soil,  
Around the  
Periphery, and  
Murder it  
With reason,  
 
With a cold  
Frame,  
Of logical reference;  
 
A child  
Who lost  
His innocence  
 
The degree of loss is  
Inversely  
Proportional  
To the progress of  
Forgetting  
 
From this, can be deduced  
A series  
Of corollaries:  
 
Our historical period is  
Governed  
By a prima facie  
Obsession  
With outward  
Appearances, which  
Fail  
To nourish  
Inner  
Wellness  
 
Shock value sex  
Art, skin creams, youth  
Culture, taut  
Muscles, beneath pre  
Shredded jeans, a degree of social  
Awareness, displayed for  
Sake of  
Standing,  
And a finger  
On the pulse of  
What’s touted,  
The current fashion  
 
Our professional congress, in  
Contrasted balance, to the  
Intimate, both a continual  
Reassessment,  
Of leverage  
Dynamics  
And a reflection of  
Personal  
Esteem  
Projection,  
Onto others  
 
And our fragile  
Egocracy, from the  
Robust, slow frame  
Strides, of some  
Elected  
Ogre,  
Whose zeal is held  
In contrasted  
Shame, to our  
General  
Indolence  
 
To her shy  
Smile,  
Beneath a sun  
Hat,  
Beautiful,  
Beyond her own  
Comprehension,  
 
She cannot see  
Herself  
 
All  
Intended  
In unnamed,  
Unmentionable  
Secrecy,  
To outrun  
The passage
Of time,
To wipe  
Away,  
Any final trace  
 
A friend  
Who lost  
His companions  
 
And yet,  
They’re all still  
There,  
You see them  
As well  
As I,  
The loved and  
Lost,  
Regardless of  
Reasoning,  
Hard wired,  
Into the circuitry  
And I still believe,  
Somehow,  
Thing work out,  
In the end  
 
Together, we  
Walk  
Through the slumbering  
Streets  
Of the city  
 
Trace our steps,  
Carefully,  
Over  
Its lax  
Palm  
 
Glide through its long  
Fingered  
Shadows,  
Hand  
In hand,  
And  
Discuss  
The slow  
Dictum  
Of cascading  
Recollection  
 
And how your  
Poems  
Are so much  
Like spiral  
Stairs,  
Approaching  
Your heart  
 
Each memory touched  
Upon, is picked up  
On its last  
Imagining,  
I say,  
To distract from my  
Terrified  
Melancholy,  
That this,  
Dream  
Will soon  
End,  
 
Is a copy  
Of a copy,  
Its waters  
Muddied,  
Each time  
They are disturbed  
 
An artist  
Who found  
His inspiration  
 
Moonlight cascades of blue  
White,  
Are the evening  
Star,  
Which guides us  
Further,  
Gilded,  
In its haloed  
Ether  
 
It’s quiet  
Laces  
Fingers  
With ours  
 
My heart,  
Let us leave off these  
Fragments  
Of discussion,  
Time  
Is fleeting,  
As these small  
Hours  
Of evening  
 
My mouth turns a rueful  
Twist, all of its own  
Accord, as I turn and  
Ask  
For a kiss,  
Even as the spotlight  
Lifts,  
To trail,  
Some other  
Star crossed  
Coupling,  
 
I ask  
For a kiss,  
She knows,  
I could have gently  
Stolen  
 
Many are saying the world  
We knew, is  
Gone,  
But,  
Something is  
Lost,  
By steady  
Increments,  
Everyday,  
As a slow beam of  
Sunlight,  
Crawls across the  
Room,  
Through  
A lowered  
Window  
 
Faces,  
Voices,  
Retreat  
Further,  
Into the dune  
Sea,  
Windswept,  
With foaming  
Undulation  
 
But now,  
In this moment,  
Somewhere in the unfathomable  
Depths  
Of her,  
All the windows and  
Doors,  
Slide  
Open  
 
Warm light  
Beckons,  
Shining through  
Innumerable  
Points,  
In her skin  
 
And I pray,  
For some  
Miracle,  
To hold back  
The dawn  
 
For a pristine  
Prince’s  
Kiss, lowered to your  
Sleeping  
Lips, to  
Wake you, from  
That slumber, which  
Carries  
You, to  
Where, I cannot  
Follow  
 
And I wonder by what silver  
Bullet, I might  
Slay  
The shame  
That held back  
A thousand apologies,  
I did sincerely wish  
To make,  
Whispered,  
To your gathering  
Shades,  
Oh my lost loves  
Cavalcade  
 
Gathered all  
About, are those  
Rooted in  
Place, by the  
Recollection,  
Of their own  
Transgressions  
 
And I hold a twisted  
Bouquet,  
All my own,  
But,  
Somehow,  
Still nurture the  
Secret  
Hope,  
That everything  
Works out,  
In the end  
 
Your hair  
Drowning my face in  
Morning  
Disarray,  
Its smell  
Engulfing  
Everything  
 
Your car  
Keys, on the  
Mantle piece  
Hook  
 
Your elbow  
Leaning  
Against  
A sun  
Blinded  
Doorway  
 
I have this dream, that  
God,  
Is in the machine  
 
..  
 
Deus,  
Ex Machina  
Or  
A thousand apologies  
By  
Daniel Christensen