I love that the procedural voice never breaks. It somehow becomes more human because it refuses sentimentality. Every cycle simply records what happened and lets the reader discover what it means.
Mark, I had to sit with this one for quite a while before I felt I had even begun to unpack it.
What first appears as a clinical investigation slowly becomes an inquiry into what survives when memory does not. The hand reaching for blue, the eye lingering on dusk, the unfinished melody… none can be justified by utility, yet each feels profoundly human.
Your final turn stopped me: “Meaning created humanity.” We often imagine ourselves as the makers of meaning, but perhaps we are first shaped by the meanings that gather within us long before we can explain them.
This poem left me wondering whether what we call memory is not merely the recollection of events, but the quiet accumulation of what the heart refuses to relinquish.
"Meaning created humanity." stays....
thank you @WritingWithWater
it leaves a quesion for me…
Can art exist without humanity?
Perhaps.
Can humanity exist without art?
I’m not so sure.
I love that the procedural voice never breaks. It somehow becomes more human because it refuses sentimentality. Every cycle simply records what happened and lets the reader discover what it means.
🪢
Thank you for seeing that, Renée and that was exactly my intent ♥️
I think readers often go looking for the answer when the real gift is the shift in the question. Your ending quietly changed where I was looking.
That’s very true, Renée. Thank you
Wow. Speechless.
Art WAS. Before humanity. Reverse= negative.
Thanks Dean!
Blue is your colour.
it is Be. 💙
Mark, I had to sit with this one for quite a while before I felt I had even begun to unpack it.
What first appears as a clinical investigation slowly becomes an inquiry into what survives when memory does not. The hand reaching for blue, the eye lingering on dusk, the unfinished melody… none can be justified by utility, yet each feels profoundly human.
Your final turn stopped me: “Meaning created humanity.” We often imagine ourselves as the makers of meaning, but perhaps we are first shaped by the meanings that gather within us long before we can explain them.
This poem left me wondering whether what we call memory is not merely the recollection of events, but the quiet accumulation of what the heart refuses to relinquish.
A remarkable piece. One that rewards lingering.