everything loses its meaning under the strain of redundancy

by yokomolotov



this very fall reckoned

everything loses its meaning under the
strain of redundancy.


I know this to be a perfect truth

but I still revel

in the images I keep sacred behind my eyes,

with all my autumns boiled down (a bare bone),
to a single one for me
that was warm crisp and altogether virginal-

my last one, as long as I live

for it is replayed as each monarch rests in my sight

and with each bird arrowed south-

and I tongue things spiced to remember
so I can go down with memory’s ship

willingly with collapsed and stunted lungs


tenderly warping it into something it never was
bleeding it dry of auburn reds and gold,
my attempts at keeping myself loved-


but now what do those moments mean?

there have been many falls since that one,
nothing but I love yous on walls-

played back so many many times,

like warped vhs, warbling and clipping
the inherent meaning gone or completely scrambled.