We ran for days
Through cities and towns,
Towns with graveyards bigger than they are
And cities with no time for the dead
Death only is and matters for a moment
Then it’s a return to the earth
A return to the soil
To help life return
Once more through the cycle.

We still ran
Across mountains and plains
Through highs, lows
Valleys brimming with mist
Consumed us before we did it
Covetous but yet kind enough to allow safe passage
We could not thank it but we did
It didn’t hear us.

Running yet still
We paced across a plateau
We saw for miles but only for a few feet

We didn’t care about beauty then
And neither did it about us
Time was our enemy, space our friend
But we didn’t appreciate either.

We didn’t leave without reason
Maybe we did
Maybe we were the reason now
It didn’t matter really
We still ran.

And when we reached the end
It wasn’t the end
We still kept going
We couldn’t stop.

In all the running
We only got
Closer to the start.    

When we stopped
We would stop.


So we didn’t.




Like the mountain, I am
Standing sentinel over all around.
Even with them on my shoulders I stand,
As others around me would drop down.
They dig into myself,
But I never collapse.
No bad thing ever comes to my health,
So my strength shall never lapse.
My head is always cold, year round,
But it never bothered me.
Up here I hear every sound,
And there’s nothing I can’t see.
There are those, who come to my peak,
To see loftily around themselves.
But the cold turns them around quick,
Too see me no more, they won’t delve.
Inside me brews that that birthed me,
A maelstrom of untold power.
This maelstrom waits to see,

Those around’s final hour.
Inside me lurks the primal urge,
To destroy all that’s grown around.
From me forth would anger surge,
To make forest meadows ashen ground.

For a second I would not think,
As those around me flee.
Out of my head magmatic drink,
That sets their souls free.
Now that my head’s not so cold,

I’m the loneliest I’ve ever been.
Now I wait for them to grow old,
And forget what they have seen.
My reflection in the lake,
All that I’ve created.
Stoic me can barely take,
Make apologies belated.
My now ashen fields,
May be fallow again.
Rebuild my forest shield,
Bring back new friends.
Mayhaps if someone could have bared my head,
They would know of fire within.
But for now my rage is fed,
I’ll lie in my own chagrin.
I’ll sit for years,
And below they’ll wonder:
“What has gone wrong?” In tears,
Never assuming it’s my blunder.
Like the mountain, I am
Sentinel of blasted ground.

Even time will wear me down.

on a foggy window

He drew the petals of a flower with a closed circle of cirleques, rounded around twice, tracing his prior work. This tracing method he repeated on the rest of the flower, from the circle within the circle of cirleques, which represented simply the complex sex organs of the flower, to the proportionately jarring large stem, with two little leaflets at the left and right of the flower. The flower was facing you, facing him, just facing outwards toward the world outside the paper it was on, wanting to be viewed. It might have been a daisy, but it was probably just a flower, the generalized and compacted idea of a flower. The flower doesn’t mean sex to him, it isn’t a representation of a girl, it’s just pretty and nice to look at and fun to draw. It’s just a flower. He just wanted to draw a flower. He has no pretenses, no ulterior motives, he didn’t do it to make money. He just wanted to try to recreate something beautiful. If he put it down on paper, he was sure he wouldn’t forget this pretty thing he has seen and touched and smelled and torn apart and examined the insides of. He even tasted it once, it was mostly like grass. Luckily there was always a lot of these flowers, so he could pick a few to be his. He wondered if they had a sound, so he stuck one in his ear. It was loud and sounded just like putting a pencil in his ear, but pencils had a sound, clik clik clik, so he still wasn’t sure that was what it sounded like. Maybe it didn’t have a sound, or maybe it was a really quiet one. He wondered if he’d ever hear it. He really liked the flower though. He hoped he would grow old and remember how much he liked the flower. That’s why he drew it.

Lucas Lysne is an autistic 18-year-old Idaho student with some vague notion of wanting to be a fiction writer (or musician, whichever starves him less). He studies all sorts of things and loves David Foster Wallace. He’s done some notable things, but, being a post-structuralist, he doesn’t even want you to know this much about him, the author, so as not to taint your contextualization of his collections of words.