Accidents: A Collection of Poetry

dance, dance, drop

I. There Are Colors I Cannot Describe

Why arrange neatly what finds beauty in repealing patterns?
Not everything need be organized; not everything
Were made to please your eyes. There are columns neither Dorian nor Ionic,
There are clouds raining calm, there are clouds raining panic
(Sweet thunder makes them home all the same).
Once, I have decided to blur my mind of maths; I have to admit
There is no escaping the endless division. And yet
There are radicals and irrationalities and immense variations of infinities
(Enough to drown Atlantises and bring down whole economies of same)
— I've very nearly broken a sweat. But not everything is game,
And even if I told you that I would not make the next line rhyme,
Your brain will make it so. But, sorry not this —

II. Cavernous, Hollow, Carved-Out Sorrow

Time. Heads spin around a rule, a convention agreed upon by stars
And some old people sitting around a fire somewhere, sometime
(Perhaps they also agreed on what part of a mammoth "tasteth" best,
Making music out of ivory, thanks to that massive tusk),
Isn't consciousness but an elevated shush? I might've sounded cynical
But looking for less than murders in tragedies is nothing short of clinical;
It's conventional — more so when you come to the realization that
You are but smoke-breath, coming out of someone's lungs,
Dreamed, somewhat ethereal, hurt, in the sense that hurt is a dream,
Surreal, pained, in the sense that pain is part of the dream,
Lost in the sense that loss is a dream, the loss is the dream
The epiphany that loss is the victory, and victories are dreams
And everything is victory, in such victories dreamed.
Is anything worth writing, is anything worth speaking of?
Everything is either forgotten or classical
(Or is "ruined by millennials" — but I digress).

III. One Must Dance

Marvels move mountains and butterflies have eyes —
Even when they would probably affect the world because of
The flapping of their wings. You must dance; they see you, too.
You live in the slits in between the breadth of wings' tattoos,
You live in the quick-recurring start-ends of deja vu.
No stars have decided, no star has run as far as to chase you,
As to predict you, as to calculate the path that is
The whirlwind that is the gap between the pores that pour the very
Sweat tasting sweet, sweet oxygen, as your skin-edges rust,
The unenticing waste creating uninviting haste in the slow hush,
And, oh, life is lifeless, danceless, but you must dance for the dance,
You must live for the life. For another pair of eyes,
For another handful of rough and aged and ugly fingers,
For another heartful of sorrow waiting to be poured into anyone who could contain it.

IV. Prepared Like Feline Einsteins

And dances, like life, may end abruptly;
I would hope that I made mine as
Beautiful and worthwhile.

— A. P.