My dreams remind that wind will soon rattle dust
across the evening, where the lightning
once made way for a bleached dynamic
of kidnapped meditations. Weary one, I remember
straining my ears to record your lament,
ashamed I was employed by instinct.
I thought I could command instinct
but there’s medicinal power in soul dust.
I’d overlooked how, when you lament,
you bravely face the lightning
by admitting and accepting that you remember
you are human. You dare destroy dynamic
drops. Drop false masks. “Dynamic
bungee hearts prey on instincts,”
I’ve heard you stutter when you can’t remember.
When your dreams shifted to dust
and burned in ephemeral lightning.
I’m sorry I couldn’t help but steal your lament
because the sharp spill of your lament
helped me protect the dynamic
edges of my masked lightning
bloodstream. Helped me pretend instinct
had led my blinded mind through dust
and dark and dreary ways to remember.
I’m ashamed how much I don’t remember
about the reason for your lament,
for your hollow cheeks and dust
heart beats. I don’t remember your dynamic
mind. I shielded myself from unpredictable instinct
from fear of being struck by lightning.
You were immersed in lightning,
at least from the pieces I remember
of summer storms of instinct
wars and sprinting, limping away from lament.
What malleable memories, how dynamic
to let moments loose to dust.
Lightning won’t always blind lament.
We must instead remember each dynamic detail
of when instinct revealed soul dust
Photograph by Austin Ban