Neural Poems - Poems about Neural

We came not for conquest, but for containment— though conquest is what happens when containment itches beneath the skin like sulfur spores in a sealed lung. They had the secret. Not gold, not weapons, not prophecy— but language that healed. Real language— not poetry, not prayer, but syntax of cells. Their infants spoke in codons. Their trees rustled in protein sequences. Their dead decomposed into algorithms that rewrote the...

Continue reading...

Lunar alabaster gleams beneath the void The infant’s mind is carved in stone Neural patterns branch like frost across the barren surface Face recognition etched in marble relief The first spark of knowing Sound waves frozen into rings echo mother's silent song Small fingertip grooves map first touch sensation then the human footprints vanish, art remains...

Continue reading...

Silk word play crosses in two and subtle mind games, both entangle me; whetting my appetite for war. Served as a weaponized aphrodisiac; sharp double edge sword hors d'oeuvre. Lured toward a subtle intoxication; true motives ceremoniously exposed. You trace the contours of my every word; the renegade now juxtaposed. We traverse to foreign places unaware; time itself intensifies, yet slows. Demons spill from...

Continue reading...

Sometimes my brain deludes me into believing that I am utterly unlovable. Like a dog who has been in the shelter for far too long, being prepared for his final meal. My throat closes up, My lungs shut down, And there are no other thoughts to be had. I often convince myself that I do not deserve good...

Continue reading...

subdivided into pities and regrets, radiating dark pain of disappointment, on the face semi plastic caustic opaque already smeared blood and venom. but isn't everything the same? I mean, our usual acid, like the gray word clothed with edges, or eyes that have given up the light, our heavy presence in this fragile environment... we already know very well that the elliptical orbit of amazement...

Continue reading...

A shaft of light, this spine. Bounded by bones, draped in rottables. Pathway of consumables, the lone remarkable. Still, I hold straight the light. Still, I insist on this dent this where this place on my cushion. At start, spine straight. Incense stick straight. By now, spine straight. Incense: tendril & ash....

Continue reading...