Grilled Cheese

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Grilled Cheese is a product of Village Compute

Version devBuilt at: 2026-10-17 03:54:26 EDT

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Text of poem - Ritual. Not international renown, but international vocabulary, the macaronics of time: poipa, desiderium, brad, la vida breve, despair - I am the bone on which all have beaten out their message to the mind that would soar. Faithful in translation, its ploy was to evade my resources. It saw me dance through the Middle Ages, and wrote its poetry with quilled pen. What so rich as the language to which the priests buried me? They have exchanged their vestments for white coats, working away in their bookless laboratories, ministrants in that ritual beyond words which is the Last Sacrament of the species.
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My poem titled Ticking Clock. … Tension. Unease. Anxiety. Each tick of the clock would pull them near. Massaging the webs near my thumbs, scanning the room for no reason, tightness on my chest and shoulders. I’d feel it all, sitting on the armchair. Still, on the day you reached out to me, and told me it would be okay… the clock stopped ticking.
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