About vividardence

i'm Will. i write poetry, most of the time, and sometimes I share it. often vaguely trying to stick to putting something up every day, often not doing that for large stretches of time. often don't make much sense. hope you find something to enjoy,

‘we can picture it’

shift from life to live
alongside the sediment,
the rock we sought
to know. changes drip
through the earth and touch
all that’s come before. care
take the darkness, burrow
beneath the wreckage, love
places that can’t be touched
by the living. walk with
the dead, what they were
before the winds shifted
and left them here. here,
here we found the quiet.

‘permission’

i will allow myself to be
furious about this. to feel
it build in the blood,
uproar of upcoming vindication,
correction woefully ignored
or misunderstood. it is
what we are, what
i wish i was. i don’t
have a right to this, the
rage is borrowed, bound
to a story i have not lived.

“existence is like this.”

silence, insurrection. over hilltops
we’ve swarmed, down city streets,
waved placards in front of more
or less everywhere. after all
that noise, silence feels alien
and yet we’re getting used to it.

indifference is the face of god,
lower case, observant and uncaring.
the fury grows despite ourselves,
and all we say comes to pass,
and nothing’s done. i’m just
writing, doing nothing, i’ve no claim
to struggle other than that i made
for myself. i am owed nothing
and they are owed the world.

calamity woke us – below,
always below. corridors, halls,
all paths eventually twisted
to us. now they’ll twist for us.

the water grows dark, castle walls
fall, and we decide to keep swimming.

“it’s late”

we’re all old gods
if that meant something,
we’re all points, scratching
wrists to jigsaw piece
conversations. bright light
of midnight phone text app
thoughts that mean something,
books on broken pagan statues
and unhelpful narratives and
mostly blank notebooks, at least
half, can’t write on the left it’s
wrong                        i wonder
if gods have panic attacks.