What began as monthly newsletters and inspiration from my life as a musician (www.loryn.net), became a compilation of writings gathered over a few years, as well as other miscellaneous components. Embracing an indefinable branch of contemporary poetics and literature, my debut manuscript Re-edit, makes contribution to the evolution of abstract truth, social standard, and spiritual discovery. A chronological in the midst of journey, this collective includes free-form prose, haiku, flash fiction, word-art, and experimental verse. All of which afford an epistemology of the primordial being’s dismantlement of hierarchical egotism.
Vist me on Poets & Writers: https://www.pw.org/content/lorin_drexler
Soft whistling rays
Can only be friends from their ancestral source,
Yet they will always remain lovers
As the height of the circle remains malignantly unchanged.
A canyon billowing tears of cluttered, mindful
Tangent black and white photography snippets
Like abstract tendrils ricketing locomotive transfer
And furthering the belly.
There was something strange though, something of her way
That carried a fragrance, a kind of familiarity
Where you feel comfort almost instantaneous
Like a thunderstorm playing tag with the electric winds.
The giving tree knows
Once it is able to give no more…
A thousand statues split into two groups, one to discuss the likes of the other.
And the other, negotiating heaven as a means of enlightenment;
Purposeful and without uncertainty or acknowledgement to the unknown—Otherwise referred—pre/post unmanifest phenomenon.
Once brought together,
There is no separation,
What has been
Is it too strange to fathom choosing our own path?
Is it too strange to fathom that maybe, just maybe
We have chosen our path, our lives, and we know where we are—
The components we compel mildly sedative and rejoicing.
Is it possible to imagine a world so indefinitely in-definitive we can’t find a reference point on either side, as we stand in-directly centered, looking to our left shoulder;
And as we stretch our hands
And touch the stars
We are left with an
Which is the breaking point for most of us—blacklisting as refugees from damnation.
But if harnessed,
With a medium size lasso,
With just the right
We may stumble upon synergy
In it’s purest
Breaking apart and
To a similar shape, but
A different time,
Regard of sensuality,
But still retaining ability
And predisposingly juxtapositioning reconciliation
Of our previous attire.
There is something unique
This planet, this moment,
The universe and the design,
And the way we have moved to the sun
Residual, at peace,
Like two lost children
On a whim.