My Wayward Visage

My Wayward Visage


Much like a time capsule, diminished and laid to rest, made lost with perfect care and then forgotten;

I too am merely a harbinger of history, left to linger beneath the surface while a memory laden sea of stars rest above.

Inevitability resolves to transcend the equanimity of my grave.

It eclipses my humble hovel and besets all that gather for it's namesake.

Nevertheless, from my rooted depths my eyes peer past the veil all encompassing.

What was black as the vast reach between stars has become my illumination.

The truth of our attraction is hidden in the palette of the Great Painter.

With each brush stroke our breath is captured in perfect time.

Every color colliding to adhere together an enduring union.

Our adulation completes a portrait painted with starlight.

Yet, in your absence the canvas sweeps back to lay bare the dissolution of my reality.

Our effigy fractured and reduced to Earth as I descend ever towards nihility.

Destitute I lay in the isolation of my tomb, gleaning ever skyward for the memory of you.

Daybreak begets sorrow, and the inexorable truth of our masterpiece.

The paint has dried, the rendering realized, and I was never in it.


Benjamin Yetter, 2019


-Our Wayward Visage- (ORIGINAL)


The scope of inevitability transcends the equanimity of my grave.

It besets all that gather for it's namesake.

Nevertheless, from my rooted depths my eyes peer past the veil all encompassing.

What was black as the vast space between stars has become my illumination.

The truth of our attraction is hidden in the palette of the Great Painter.

With each brush stroke our breath is captured in perfect time.

Every color colliding to adhere together an enduring union.

Our adulation completes a portrait painted with starlight.

Yet, in your absence our canvas sweeps back to lay bare the dissolution of my reality.

Eclipsed by mournful sorrow I am reduced to the ground.

Remanded to the isolation of my tomb, I glean skyward for the memory of you.

But now I see...

the paint has dried,

the rendering realized,

and I was never in it.


Benjamin Yetter, 2019