Published by Nate Triscari at Shakespir
Copyright 2016 Nate Triscari
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Amongst the dance of flame,
faces glow with delight.
Single candle, not lonely at all,
I share the warmth it radiates.
And will again in time that follows.
My ears ring,
to a song that’s out of tune.
My surprise is the conductor.
I lick my lips in anticipation,
to blow out my birthday candle.
On the warmer days,
we might go down to the beach.
Lying on the sand,
I rub sunscreen on your back.
You fall asleep while I read.
In the colder months,
we might share a warm cuddle.
You make soup for me.
Tomorrow, I will make soup,
and we will cuddle again.
From the bottom of an empty well,
the moon creates a blinding spotlight.
It does not reveal the way out.
Walls talk whispers.
Echoes of the worst.
Whispers in ears.
Panic and yell,
“I’m trapped! I’m trapped!”
Nobody else can hear.
with return to reality.
return might never occur.
Sharpened teeth glare with ferocity,
from the radiance of the night sky.
There is no chance of escape.
Stomach begins to churn,
knotted mess of terror.
Twisted, tangled fur,
coarse against my skin.
I lie in bed,
I always start a painting with the sky,
doubt myself sometimes, but now that’s alright.
I’ll maybe paint a little butterfly,
and then that will be all I paint tonight.
Now for the unexpected robot friend,
a creature from culture my mind creates.
And with this strange and bizarre blend,
I create something my butterfly hates.
I’ll paint the sky and feel divine again.
My butterfly took flight and flew away.
But I cannot remember if or when.
I am feeling very lonely today.
In the sky, with the robot now stood there.
I know my butterfly is still somewhere.
Grey patches and lifeless drab.
The only sound,
car tyres on wet roads.
Walk the street in the rain.
A bitter taste of doubt on lips never kissed,
a scent of past memories lingers.
Weeping determination, take a breath.
Step out on to the crossroads,
Car tyres on wet roads,
the last thing heard.
The mechanics of our natural life
Monotony is the human life.
Think. Act. Work. Sleep.
Robotic in nature.
Machines born naturally,
purpose invented, into this world.
The programming flawed.
No different to a grain of sand,
a confluence of feelings, actions and words,
destroys the machine.
in its place.
The journey is inside of you.
Caution be damned!
Your instincts are your guide.
Dance in the rain,
not wearing any underwear.
Let your hair grow wild.
Bend to your carnal desires,
like the uninhibited wolf,
dancing in circles, you grow tall.
Howl in response to your luminescent moon.
About Nate Triscari
Nate Triscari was born in Western Australia in 1991. He was raised in the South West region before moving to Perth. Nate is currently studying creative writing at Edith Cowan University in Western Australia. Emote is his first collection of poetry to be published.