seraphemera (seraphemera) wrote,

dust to pixel dust

from the moment we're named
swaddled in parchment
spine (still) uncracked
no watermark in our veins
sheathed to the before come after
signed and wax sealed on each numbered volume
designed and concealed on each numbered page
until our last steps reveal
the texture with which the cover is bound
and its dark face, engraved

of our lifeline...but this, seems all that is destined to remain
no more than ephemeral passengers in the public domain

the faces of a family for what it is worth
when nobody remembers the joy or the shame
or rather everybody who would have...
...touched their hand
...tasted their lips
...exchanged words
...fought for dinner
...laughed with abandon... dead

now but unnoticed and unpaginated history
untried and unmarked nostalgia
buried in deep from the unrecoverable days

so...when the valuables are divided
the possessions sold to
the auction house
the antique dealers
the junk peddlers
everything doled
the trail goes cold

yet, on this occasion they wind up in these hands
to be remixed and retold
without thought
(and this is where we must be bold)
of whether or not
these pages
will once more
be proffered into gold

yet, on this occasion
one glance
one unwitting pose
one gentle moment
burns into an empty frame
hung on the skeletal walls
that guard the caves of the mind
caverns of the brain
protecting all that we are
from the voice of another writer
the vision of another poet
the poison of an informational age

we begin in lust
em-dashes to pixel dust

from the moment we're given our recycled name
until passing into our paper-lined grave

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