Pried by persuasive light, flickering sun-dried eyelids, catch the flame of morning.
Wake-up dust wells-up, in tear ducts of cognizance,
spinning without moving.
Digital clicks, after musical ticks, and red lights on a small black screen.
Hangovers of comprehension, still trickling in,
only conscious by concession.
Grinding through gears, with growls of rust, and numerous protest pangs.
Shoving cyclones of breath, through a dry torso desert,
blowing away each grain.
Discarded accessories, off shattered structures, still dangling in existence.
Phantoms of reminiscence, recollecting resistance,
and testing all persistence.
Past isles of acquaintanceship, rushing currents, and familiar human splashes.
Out corridors of mist, into the course of openness,
with no clear route of passage.
Surging onward, though oblivion’s wake, and drawing an extant blade.
To sever the illusions, of defeatist intrusion,
and anchors of obfuscation.
Liberate the spirit, untether the soul, unburden the weary body.
Cast lines far and wide, past metropolitan skies,
out though the naked frontier.
Destruction as preparation, with reclaimed possibilities, ready to emerge.
Epiphanies given free reign, with the exoergic strength,
of being broken for rebirth.
Nicholas Yandell is a composer, who sometimes creates with words instead of sound. In those cases, he usually ends up with fiction and occasionally poetry. He also paints and draws, and often all these activities become combined, because they’re really not all that different from each other, and it’s all just art right?
When not working on creative projects, Nick works as a bookseller at Powell’s Books in Portland, Oregon, where he enjoys being surrounded by a wealth of knowledge, as well as working and interacting with creatively stimulating people. He has a website where he displays his creations; it’s nicholasyandell.com. Check it out!