I have loved you in pixels,
In the cathedral glow of screens,
Where devotion refreshes every second
And longing buffers endlessly.
Your face arrives compressed,
Your voice a small miracle of code.
Even desire must pass through servers
And be approved.
We leave our hearts on read.
We archive tenderness.
We type what we cannot say
And delete it
Like a sin forgiven too easily.
O modern love –
So public, so lonely –
We touch the world constantly
And rarely feel it touch back.
Horror ripens where consciousness encounters its own amplitude; the mind, pressed against immensities it cannot domesticate, secretes phantasm as a mollusk secretes nacre, layering dread into iridescent structure.
The feed refreshes like a mouth that learns
to open cleanly, quick, without a sound;
a thumb conducts the choir of small returns,
each mercy shaved to fit a smaller round.
We trade in shocks that keep the lights awake,
in outrage salted just enough to sell;
a million little dawns we never make,
one endless noon that rings a private bell.
The good arrives already pre-forgiven,
the bad accrues a credit we can spend;
we live as if the sum were all we’re given,
and scroll until the numbers call it end.
The
stars ask no questions.
They simply burn.
But I, being human, must turn even the burning into parable.
My soul is a poor spectroscope,
but still I aim it skyward.
The pale visitor rose above my bed,
her frozen gaze a weight upon my chest,
high breasts like moonlit ruins overhead,
the shadowed grove between her white skin pressed,
each whispered sigh a promise I might fall,
her laughter threading silence through my head,
and drew my failing soul toward the pall.
I could not move, could not refuse her claim,
her hand a frost upon my weary heart,
each breath a tide that whispered only shame,
the world dissolved, its mercy torn apart,
I felt the dark invite me to the deep,
its cold enough to steal my final sleep,
and leave no echo of my broken start.
In sleep, my mind is a planet orbiting itself.
Dream is the dark matter that keeps me from flying apart.
It cannot be seen.
But without it, nothing would cohere.
Like Aquinas’ unmoved mover, it does not glow.
But it grips.
All systems are coffins.
Language. Religion. Science. Even the self. Beautiful, decorated boxes made to preserve decay. If you linger long enough inside any belief, it embalms you. That is why mystics speak in riddles and poets lie: not to deceive, but to escape the gravity of closure.
