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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
February 8, 2016
Cultist by Sycsta is a short, witty narrative about the cyclical nature of humanity.
Featured by LiliWrites
Suggested by TheKerwinator
Literature Text
One day, we’ll worship rust
and marvel how it claimed
the world of industrious metal,
leaving nothing but slowing
reddening struts, half-hearted
angles reaching outward.
We’ll dive into the wrecks
looking for half-sparking wonders
that, when properly restored, gleam
into sputtering song or splitting
pictures of different worlds
and the faces of old Gods.
and marvel how it claimed
the world of industrious metal,
leaving nothing but slowing
reddening struts, half-hearted
angles reaching outward.
We’ll dive into the wrecks
looking for half-sparking wonders
that, when properly restored, gleam
into sputtering song or splitting
pictures of different worlds
and the faces of old Gods.
Literature
Torn Photograph
it's creased
and water-stain wrinkled
from that pitch-black night
when Jenny left the window open and a wild north-easterner
clawed its way in
screaming all the way
and snapping the curtain like a sodden whip
its fraying blunted corners
are yellowed by age
and sticky little fingers
who left apple-juice residue
in fossilized fingerprints
on the fading colors
but the jagged edge
where you ripped him out
has only just begun to soften
to rewrite a memory
you must do much more
than destroy the evidence
preserved in laminated cardstock
Literature
truth in the lens
Your 35mm camera
is like a kid’s scrawl on a cement wall: we were here.
Passion unabridged,
documentation for the sake of documentation
as we lose track of what we were supposed to be doing
and just exist.
You’re as raw as a light scratch at three in the morning,
as lost as a Polaroid in that pocket in your suitcase
that you always forget is there.
(You’re not really lost at all.)
Literature
Unreliable Poet
I confess I don't remember
Whether you wore your hair down
Or tied it back into a sort-of pony tail;
Whether your dress was red with black spots
Or black with red spots,
Or something else entirely.
But I perfectly recall your smile,
Like Spring’s first sunshine
Whose warmth lingers even now.
I may have already forgotten,
The cadence with which you spoke
Your intonation and inflection;
The questions you asked me
And the answers I found
Down amongst the butterflies.
But I know that your voice
Was an unchained symphony
Was angelsong
A spell of sweet restlessness.
I cannot fo
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I enjoyed this. Thank you.