Memories of my death

I can remember that I was held under

Long enough for my lungs to tear themselves asunder.

I can remember trying to fight back,

Without any breath, my body just a sack.

I can remember that I screamed and screamed,

Screamed so long I thought I dreamed

The time without screaming, the drowning and pain,

Screamed until I broke, I was no longer sane.

Then, if I’m right, I think I died,

I… I think I actually died.

If I died… Then am I a ghost?

Doomed to wander this bleak coast.

I remember my death. What now?

I can’t stay, I must move on? But how?

Resurrection machine

In the far-away future, we can resurrect the dead,

With just a piece of bone a new being can be bred.

We tried using it to on our loved ones who passed,

But the memories were blank no matter what we asked.

First we were depressed, oh what a failure!

But then it hit us and we celebrated gailyer.

Blank-slate humans are perfect for tests:

Psychological research without learned pests.

That also failed, can’t generalize

The results into other, real gals and guys.

So now we just use them as slaves and that’s it.

They’ll work for whatever we want to see fit.

I conditioned mine to love being sat on.

It works for days and from dusk till dawn.

Once in a week I use it as a chair

And it praises its master, finds it more than fair.

Not what we wanted from the resurrection machine,

But it’s better than nothing, my home’s very clean

Soul of Cinder

The final enemy at the end of my journey,

The very last jouster in my third tourney.

 

Ash and soot, sand made into glass,

The sun eclipsed by a dark, black mass.

I climb the hill onto an ash plain,

Ready myself to be once again slain.

Soul of Cinder, a man of fire,

Somehow familiar, fierce and dire.

We start the duel, I break sweat,

I’m reminded by someone I have met.

The Soul of Cinder made me cry,

Not because I would die and die,

(As opponents go, he was fair,

He took me on, shoulders square.)

It was the music that started to play,

Amidst the black sky and ground of gray.

The piano I heard such a long time ago

Such sweet sadness, gentle and slow,

Gwyn, Lord of Cinder was there once more,

Entered my memories and opened a door.

I forgot where I was, just for a flash,

Was beaten to a pulp, ground into the ash.

No time for nostalgia in the middle of a fight,

Not even when it burns incandescently bright.

Dark Souls, I will always remember,

The search for humanity, for the feeble ember.

Mind fruit

My mind is made of fruit,

Which I think is cute.

If I think about my memories,

They’re very clearly small cherries.

Bloom and wither, going away,

New ones come no matter what I say.

Jokes are clementines, small and sweet,

Taking lots of place, not piled too neat.

Friends are bananas, keeping me alive,

They ensure I cannot but thrive.

When I’m confused all this makes a salad,

As a proper meal, that’s not valid.

If I get stressed, they become juice,

Making me unbalanced like something was loose.

If I get depressed, they become dried,

Still a hint of taste, but most of it’s died.

My mind is fruit if seen like this,

Although I’m sure there’s something amiss.

Easter Egg Hunt

Three days till Easter Sunday comes round,

I get to use the hiding places I’ve found.

The egg-finders this year will not find a yolk,

Unless they are quite detectifying folk.

The easy ones are gonna be up a tree,

Up on a hill or under the sea.

You can find those if you look real hard,

Or they might write you a hint-postcard.

The trickier ones, if you want them caught:

Persistence, grit and lateral thought.

Some I will transform inside out,

One’s a stone or a crack in the grout.

I bet you’ll miss the one like your dad,

It’s a good copy, though, don’t be sad.

If I’m not lazy, one’s your house,

And one is a normal egg of a louse.

Some I’ll hide inside your mind,

In your memories an egg you’ll find.

The first time you tried a hazelnut bar,

An egg on the table, not that far.

Last week when you forgot what to say,

It’s on the shelf where your words are at bay.

Some I’ll hide in the dreams you have,

Where you run on the fields with a newborn calf.

Maybe the one with moving to Spain,

Where you conceive of the plastic brain.

Some I’ll hide in pure abstraction,

Beauty of a song or calculated traction.

One big one in the color of yellow,

One in anger and one in mellow.

That’s not tough, have a good hunt,

IF you find them all, it’ll be quite a stunt.