Antithetical Yawnings

White Room Explained

Since The Invention Of The Dialog Box
interchangeable stories fed, stir dreams

Breathing, in and out of the white room,
Perspective gives color, bleeding.
Messy, live scrawlings drip from my face —
Tap-tap-tappings, downstream descend toward
A winter solstice freezing — flutterings
Fly away from my verbal equinox.

Reverbed echoes can be heard,
Indistinguishable yet to all but One
Who translates, relates to the white room —
A clean box where a powerful mind force-flexes.  (10)

Frost lays heavy icing on frozen terrain.
They come and go in haste — no time to waste.
Many white seasons damage…vocal cords, long past reasoning.
Temporary death performs not, locked in permafrost.

What taunts me on many horizons? In white rooms
where we could all go stare out windows, sight
snow shuddering meadows, until warm revival?
The mantle soul, kindled with virtue nurtured,
I’d sacrifice blood into each room eternally — 

My heart in bloom. Cold breath exhilarated, cools  (20)
Overheating, brimming nucleus fed into the otherwise
Ordinary. A slow, patient scene is but paint we wait. Thumbs
cartwheel, but also percuss beats timing dreaming.

Restrain no ink for pale imagination, nor hate
This white vocation. Supply your soul tender music,
Ascension in rainbows gleaming on shared ceilings.
White is safe, is sure, but daring lives better.

Bring your stones worth heaving to the bottom
Of an empty, dying lake. I’ll supply thirst to slake 
Harmony long past renewal, reflections rolling      (30)
Deep into our seasons, an eternal tide of my love.

I’m in your white box, painting hollow rainbows
With stories of my life, and the one yet lived.
This vocation we share echoes in dark, into arrival.
Bleeding, in and out of the white room,
Perspective gives color, still breathing.


11.18.25, 12.13.25, tightened, modified theme, adds lyrical and modifiers to infuse color and image
36 lines

The above: Just opened a window after one random YouTube click that redirected thoughts to seek epiphany.
God sends me messages of love. AI gives note and instruction, while I laugh at my ignorant child…trying yet.

I could make this rhyming, maybe extract something to share for traditionalists.
Whenever I tighten up, I delete, leave edited fragments. (Avoided this time)

I can accept God, better than the alternative…
Manipulation from all cult-like organizations also offer (unwittingly?) prosperity for our own convictions — Love foremost, virtue cuts through torment. Hate does not set my sail but could send a worthy adversary.
Challenges are how we choose to live. Never fold. Never, ever. Writers save humanity, the earth, with every key click, wrist twist, with toils of our minds’ love labor. I support all but propaganda and those ruled by it to get my wary eye.
You don’t command anything, world rulers. Okay, I gotta stop before Stalin rolls into my town. Better writing to all. Learn history!

Most here added post final poem edit. Idealism? Dead??