Tyler Maltba

Darkling I still sing

Wait, is that, your song?

Memories waking from the fallen night

Cinematic stimulus of our farewell 

And last November’s forgotten fold

Ah yes, green-eyed magnetic soul

You laid siege upon me atop 

Hierarchies of the banyan-grove tree

I’ve come to know your seasons

Flirting towards the almost faded

Your pace quickens

And light departs on hidden eves

Masking double, triple takes

Lamb’s breath, even your slightest will do

Life for new leaves on high

Yet you still prefer the dead below 

Etching steps away towards nothingness

Another night is upon me---know I’ll stay

Nursing the home well after

You no longer climb to hear my canopy song

But darkling I still sing

Immortal Love

Immortal love,

Your gravity echoes through tomorrow’s yesterday

Boundless against the ticking hand.

Lure nadir high into still dreams, my poppy;

Your nectar,  numbness for nature volatile.

Dissolve the years’ maturing weariness 

And wisdom’s sodden wrinkles.

Lie here in our singularity,

For with you, my tender valentine, 

Forever is today.

Embalmer of My Brooding Heart

Embalmer of my brooding heart,

Holy love ‘til death do us part!

Yet another pluckèd my rose,

So jealousy endlessly grows.

Neither dreams nor pleasures at night, 

Only prayers for morning light 

To cease the self-deprecation,

Repeated alienation.

Darkness of my fragile psyche,

Understanding is unlikely;

Confusion of the strifeful states,

Poison that henceforth permeates:

A sin that left a cavity,

Laughter echoes—depravity—

World of half-truths, O father Zeus,

Shall I tighten the numbing noose?

A gasping breath and bulging eyes,

Slowly my soul seemingly dies

As tho my naked neck’s been wrung—

Silence—the angel’s harp unstrung.

The dark knight rides in on his steed

To claim debts of a broken creed;

Now summoned by his calling cloak,

I prepare for midnight’s swift stroke.

An obol placed upon my lips,

Perhaps freed from love’s ghastly grips;

A spring martyr I will become,

So balmy bees do not succumb.

As I lie down in the bower,

I smell my sweet thornèd flower.

Frantic, for how can this be?

A feral Fay has deceived me:

Neither divine nor devotion,

Rather an evil love potion!

Fated to drown in her nectar,

No rescuer or objector!

Immolation was vile yet vain,

The heart’s hypnosis does remain.

Embalmer of my brooding heart,

Holy love ‘til death do us part!

Bio:

T.E. Maltba is a statistics Ph.D. candidate at U.C. Berkeley whose research lies at the intersection of probability theory, machine learning, statistical mechanics, and computational neuroscience. Much of his poetry and vignettes navigate connections between the cosmos, consciousness, and the human experience through the lens of his research, as well as his personal experiences and challenges with Asperger’s syndrome, mental health, and substance abuse. He dedicates his work to his family in North Carolina, his significant other, and those he has lost along the way.