Maybe our hope is to capture that likeness which eludes us, that core of self which sails on boats too distant on the horizon to know if it they are coming ashore or drifting farther into the void.
We could easily say it's the ace in an unfair hand that an ex-lover dealt to us, an unexpected trump card laid on a timeline table next to a bronzed queen sipping margaritas with her court of muscles on a beach too pristine for the eye to absorb.
Perhaps it's just our recognition of mortality, of knowing that moments will thaw and spoil unless we freeze them on our phones and pack them in airtight digital containers too small to store our aging organs, our gravity-bent bones.
Is this our immortality? A puckered face in the driver's seat of a new convertible? An awkward pose beside a friend with whom we lost touch thousands of updates ago?
Will the graduating class of 2150 really want to see so many pictures of the dead?
Maybe our hope is to capture
that likeness which eludes us,
that core of self which sails on boats
too distant on the horizon to
know if it they are coming ashore
or drifting farther into the void.
We could easily say it's the ace
in an unfair hand that an ex-lover dealt to us,
an unexpected trump card
laid on a timeline table
next to a bronzed queen sipping margaritas
with her court of muscles
on a beach too pristine for the eye to absorb.
Perhaps it's just our recognition of mortality,
of knowing that moments will thaw and spoil
unless we freeze them on our phones
and pack them in airtight digital containers
too small to store our aging organs,
our gravity-bent bones.
Is this our immortality?
A puckered face in the driver's seat
of a new convertible?
An awkward pose beside a friend
with whom we lost touch thousands
of updates ago?
Will the graduating class of 2150 really want to
see so many pictures of the dead?
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry