Untitled #377 Poem by Bernhard Emil Bruhnke III

I did not wish to sleep with old gods
that stand trying to evoke the grey skyline of modernity

That preach on hummingbird wires
that murmur telemetry through echoed iconoclasts.

And as the aging blue repetition spatters on a new cosmetic smile
that fades with its bedfellows in the eons of perfidy,
despondent windows (oh so many will be seen in the unseen) ,
and the lost scribes of what needs to be forgotten
(our oh so necessary important leeches) .

I remember that this always relieves me of something.

Something

Such a natural and dissatisfying word.
A word that reaches sadly for itself.

That this now has a home.
A breath, a birth.
This moment lives somewhere.
It did not ask me of anything.
Only to discard memory for, again, something beautiful.

Beautiful and forgotten.
The last leaf that clings to its creator.