Poetry

The Pride Before, 1 (214.)

Scribbled pencil lines
amass too fast and too free,
and the paper looks
like a robot spat lead
all over it uncontrollably.
This typed-out document looks
much cleaner, easier to understand,
and it will do a lot to help
when details are in demand.
To update on the fly, however,
that’s the real trouble:
pencil-and-paper RPGs
leave my PC out of their bubble.
I shall jot down notes
as cleanly as I can,
then type them out at home
so I can read and understand them
later.

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Poetry

Litanies Against Dying, 31 (213.)

There’s a glint of something
in a hole at the edge of the universe,
and it reflects off your smile,
your words, your actions,
they all shine with the light
of a thousand potential universes,
hundreds upon hundreds upon infinite
dimensions, and within one of these,
there’s an infinitesimal chance
that we kissed,
for one reason or another.
This tiny spark,
child of flint touching steel,
sets my heart aflame.
Though this reality is not mine,
its beacon lights my way.
Romance or no,
you’ve illumined a hundred dreary days
at least,
and I’m
eternally grateful to you.

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