Poetry of a Conlanger

Tuesday, December 20, 2005


Things never turn out the way you dream.
Even when they’re not busy
Exploding you,
They’ll imitate
Your most cherished hopes;
Only dustier,
For imitations are just that.

Let now the starry celestial photograph
Pan downward, and transfix an earthy scene.

Let now the star-dusted, dreamy walls
Crash down into rubble.

Let now any last negative of that first photograph
Burn into ashy oblivion.

It’s just acid on my memories.


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