Silver Clouds are Calling
–Cam D.S
∆Remember Us∆
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Category: poetry
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Poem
by
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Nothing Changed
Surely
tho As Such insists, a change comes amuck.
Lovely. A different taste to the airs of days,
But of Today?
Something runs, remind myself, I mustn’t chase,
And still,
Distilled within Attention’s race,
I seem inthralled, it, not me, who shows a Face.
Calling Names, it waves me On,
Says stay
For long becomes the Waves
And Soon adrift, the mind at war,
Abandon Ship, become the slip, don’t mind the pull,
Into the Sea
Until the shore.
Once arrived, face to face,
A caskets closed, add one to the count of days that waste.
Act surprised but nothing Changed.
-cam.d.s.s
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I’m piecing you together today, and the You I’ve always known—
the one in the desert that I’ve brought myself into Find.
We entered a space without place together in Utero.
It reverberates.
To those in act of recognizing the Hum of importance,
it is a sort of Calling back home.
I cannot go Home.
Old mother of my mother, who first met the man of the man I know,
the man I once saw in Odds of Two,
even when stood alone in his Cell for days in solitude.
What learning is there to receive by correction of Evening out someOne?
It is true—or so I heard—
that when I have grown out
all my Lashings,
shaking the caskets where ashes Reside.
In death’s last breath, some Echo astounds me:
what uttered my Father,
the One who now has become my Surroundings?
In lack of his Sun, what Uttered his tongue?
Or what’s spent of the Young when Angels of God came and found him?
I miss you in Zeros.
In shapes of the days left by heroes.
Craters of rock.
Depressions my Earth of an Idol.
A figure of Voice I’ve forgotten.
The shape of the pulls of his Slur, Oxycontin.
Yellow it rottens the Whites of an Eye,
submerges Toxins.
What’s become Emerged:
an old friend was calling,
Recalling the name of an Urge—
my father in Dirt.
When Suddenly Sons become Become stars before sleep,
a dream in disguise.
Running it thin as a Lie—
clocks become sins,
don’t send the Goodbye.
At least then it seems that again—
I could see you in time. -
In the hour of false clarity the mirror beckons with borrowed light
empty your hands that you might grasp the SourceI.
When dawn’s first breath blooms into hollow promise
the glass invites you to believe its glow
yet every shimmer is a wound unhealed
empty your hands that you might grasp the Source
II.
A voice of reason coils around the heart
whispering truths that tear the soul
it trades your essence for echoing words
empty your hands that you might grasp the Source
III.
In the cavern where silence is the only prayer
an unseen river carves the self away
and what remains is unclaimed and free
empty your hands that you might grasp the Source
IV.
Beneath the vaulted sky of doubt and wonder
stars speak in riddles older than the world
their language dissolves all certainty
empty your hands that you might grasp the Source
V.
The mind erects its towers of glass and smoke
each story built upon a lie
until the wind of Spirit shatters the façade
empty your hands that you might grasp the Source
VI.
A trembling flame flickers in the void
its warmth a promise of unseen dawn
it calls you beyond appearance and name
empty your hands that you might grasp the Source
VII.
In the mirror’s edge your visage trembles
a pilgrim lost between flesh and faith
yet grace waits behind every fracture
empty your hands that you might grasp the Source
VIII.
Let every borrowed glow dissolve in winter air
let every claim of knowing fall like autumn leaves
so your soul can rise in naked clarity
empty your hands that you might grasp the Source
IX.
When finally you stand before the silent well
there is no echo to betray your heart
only the living voice of what always was
empty your hands that you might grasp the Source
-
They say
some things.
And let go of the rest.
They kill themselves
and cry —
as if their fingers weren’t
on any kind of trigger.
They long for faith
then slaughter martyrs.
We live,
but we do not learn
without falling.
Still,
they say these fucking things.
Things.
Things.
What are you, Cameron,
besides these things?
What weight can you hold
without begging
to be held?
Cameron —
Who are they?
They scream through daylight
then hide in the marrow of night.
And so you wait,
waiting for them
to say more
things.
What is the moon,
without the sun to blame?
Who gave you this thirst for answers
and called it freedom?
If they are not beneath you,
are they above?
Fine.
Let them rule.
Give me commandments, then,
Overlord.
Drown me in your fire.
Anoint me with ash.
Suit me with wings
that fall mid-flight.
Kill me
with your precious stuff —
Let me drown
in the sea of my soul.
Let the iron rust
inside my veins.
Unplug confusion from my circuits.
Reconnect me.
Cleanse me.
Wholly.
Holy.
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If I could build a boat
Steal the wind
and sail around the world
I would have it all and still not have a clue
It’s like God’s got confused about it all
and with my attitude,
The ship is sinking and that’ll do
But still
the motion
sickness gets me
When it kicks in, I’m drowning out
and not so
Dizzy now, although I’ve had a few—
Of what?
Of life?
Of visions?
Of a swirling blue?
-cam d.s
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you won’t respond, and that’s the point.
i don’t know why i’m doing this.
maybe to hold myself accountable for the way i still spiral when your name comes up in my head,
or maybe because if i don’t speak this somewhere,
it rots deeper.
and i’m tired of smelling the inside of a grief no one else recognizes as real.there’s nothing poetic here.
i’m not writing this for catharsis.
i’m writing it because rage lives in my throat now,
and i want to scream without having to hear myself echo back.you said things to me that you never had to say.
you made me believe we were building something—
not a fantasy, but a structure.
something i was supposed to trust enough to invest in.but you were already pulling pieces from the bottom
before i even knew what floor we were on.
and when it collapsed, you walked away like the rubble wasn’t yours too.i hate that i still wake up some mornings
with your voice in my teeth
and my body aching from dreams i can’t fully remember
but always know you were in.i hate how you turned your absence into a performance piece—
blocking, deleting, vanishing like i’m some infected part of your timeline
you needed to cut off for your “healing.”
congrats.
you erased me like a glitch.
but my body still remembers.i see you in the mundane.
in the sound of a screen door.
in the smell of cinnamon or fucking almond milk.
in the way i instinctively brace myself for disappointment
when someone shows interest in me,
because they might walk too.i hate the part of me that still worries about you.
still.
like some sick reflex that didn’t die with the rest of what we were.god didn’t laugh at me.
he ignored me.
left me asking for a sign
while you rearranged the narrative to make me the problem.you treated me like a chapter you regretted writing.
you got to leave.
i stayed behind to edit the wreckage.the worst part?
you could’ve been brutal with me,
and i still would’ve handed you what was left.
not out of weakness, but loyalty.
and that loyalty was weaponized.one day i’ll have a life again.
not this half-living limbo i’ve been pacing through since you left.
i’ll have someone beside me, maybe.
and still, some part of me will be calculating the risk of them vanishing
the way you did—
without warning, without ceremony,
just gone.and i’ll wonder:
did you ever give a fuck?
or was all of it disposable the second it got inconvenient?this isn’t about closure.
it’s about clarity.
i need you to know—
you damaged something that was trying to heal.
you made me distrust my ability to love without losing myself.
you taught me that being unforgettable means nothing to someone already rehearsing their exit.we’re strangers now.
fine.
but you will not be a ghost.
not in my life.
not in my blood.
i am purging this.
you don’t get to linger.no reply necessary.
none would mean anything anyway. -
Remembrance, alone
There is a space without Place
thin as breath—bright as bone,
where I wonderif I am The Memory
or just remembering my place asRemembrance, alone.
The day folds into quiet, Spaceless distasteful Gaps in the silence. Still
I feel the weight of things not done-
press against the spine of the world.What if every unfinished thing
learned my name,
called it back to me in the hush
before sleep?Would I wake wearing their ghosts,
a vessel of half-lived futures,
an archive of abandoned potential
still smoldering beneath my skin?I do not know if I am becoming,
or merely circling the ruins
of what I once promised myself.Still
there is something in the circling.–cam.d.s.
8:07 pm
∆Remember Us∆ 