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Poetry - Isis Zystrid


i am not one to resist logic,

i do not need my head

to be in the clouds

to get through

the day.

though i find no fault

in trying to keep

your pineal gland

from calcifying,

do not doubt that

the things arising within you

are attached to the ethereal.

but i have to take

this overcast afternoon

to curse that the two

have not met

in this scenario--

my divine synapses

have not alchemically bonded

to the most bare bones

version of reality.

see, when you meet

the perfect person

for you

and feel nothing for them,

it makes one desire

to take blunt objects

to the intersection

of where the physical world

and the ether meet.

chemicals have stirred in me

at such grandiose velocity--

such acute emotions

torn from the part of me

where these things are created.

but so often in scenarios

where there was no rationale

for these sensations

to stand on.

logic had to refuse

when i had an entire world

growing inside of me

for a being who would be

of no benefit to my life.

but the turn of fate

has presented a soul

that would be an ideal

hand of cards,

but i look upon them

and i am all logic, logic

reason and stand bereft

of celestial worlds

growing inside of me.

Man Made

she expresses

the tales

of her logic,

"i'm an atheist,"

painting wind inklings

and senses that overcome me

as miniscule frivolities

to be discarded

as child's play.

i was certain

that the force

that held the scenery

was up to something,

had an elusive craft

that many had spoken of

and many refuted.

these tempestuous storms

and then the droughts,


it could be according

to procedure

or it could be the drab,

calculated inevitability

of noncommital stagnance.

the sidewalk

held our conversation,

and one must wonder at times

why we are guided

on trails

that are discordant

with our fulfillment.

are there always proclamations

of cut and dry rationality

floating above

man made substances

that suffocate

the surface

of the earth--

i am caught

holding my breath

because what is organic

in me

has come across a boulder.

what connects to the electricity

beneath my flesh

from sources outside of me

cannot scavenge and gather

from this declared

plasticine lack.


i laid after your


that i had seen you

expel your inner


for the first time--

did you feel this connected us

to processes of intimacy

long practiced

by those who crafted

alchemical ways two

souls could sew

into each other's fabric.

did you think

this allowed me into

parts of you

that you felt sheepish about--

did you feel this divination

between us

and think sorcerers

too risky

in their pursuits.

the chemical concoctions


between our movements

were perhaps

stirred in scientific equipment

from entrepreneurs

of things doubted,


and then eradicated

by man-made fires.

but in moments

of recalling

spells of

ancient subversives,

i am flattered

and concerned

by basic human reflexes

rendering you

to emotional


Whims not our own

don't speak badly

of my father--

we are all created

on the premise of whims

not our own,

merely fragments of light until

we can elucidate

things unseen

prior to our presence.

don't speak badly of candles

in grimy windowsills

accompanied by prayers--

we can all find our fulfilments

running through and out of us

more rapidly than usual,

and there are those

who look to the inspired words

of scribes

from long times past

to manage the cumbersome

and thick of a present moment.

please do not speak ill

of the man who concocted

such effective biological recipes

to create the person standing

before you,

for maybe he is as complex

and nebulous as

the deities prophesied

to have brought about

the earth.

there is a human who has said,

"if there is a god,

he has a lot of explaining to do,"

but all my father has done

is explain,

he has intonations

and tact for such things.

he had knowledge for how lightly

i should tread

and how enthusiastically

to exist

within specific moments.

but what am i to expect

from a godlike craftsman

of all things?

they must have no teeth

for which to capture

the words they did not think through--

they must have no hair to stroke

as they contemplate how

to conceptualize all of this


please do not speak illof my father,

he did not leave me upon

a convent's doorstep--

but much is to be discussed

whether such instances occurred to

this world

once an either malignant

or benign creature

had had its fill.

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