Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.019 apart. A smaller distance means the lines are built more alike.

This number is read from the build of the lines. The bright edge is that number, carried outward until the pattern repeats.

Keeper of Our Days

by Richard

0.5167 − 0.4186i

Drawing the boundary…

Je ne suis point, ma guerrière Cassandre

by Pierre de Ronsard

0.5062 − 0.4346i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.

Keeper of Our Days

by Richard

By the fireplace we sit each night,
With albums old and frayed,
I hold your hand, so cold and light,
As memories start to fade.
Your eyes, they wander, lost in time,
Where once they saw our love,
Now trapped within a maze so blind,
But still, I won’t give up.

Though the years have worn us down,
And your mind’s a distant shore,
I’ll hold on to the love we found,
Even if you remember no more.
I’ll be the keeper of our days,
In every photo, every song,
Though your mind may drift away,
My heart will keep you strong.

Your voice, a whisper, barely there,
Of times when you were my guide,
Now I’m the one who has to care,
Through every storm, every tide.
These hands, so weak, with every touch,
Try to turn back the years,
But how can love be held so much,
When faced with endless tears?

I see the man you used to be,
In every faded frame,
A pillar, rock, my sanctuary,
Before it all became a game.
With every jar I cannot twist,
Every step that brings me pain,
I fight against the cruel mist,
That tries to take you away again.

One day soon, I know we’ll part,
And I’ll have to let you go,
But I’ll carry you within my heart,
Where our love will always grow.
So here’s to us, my darling dear,
In every tear, in every sigh,
For though you fade, I’ll keep you near,
Our love will never die.

Je ne suis point, ma guerrière Cassandre

by Pierre de Ronsard

Je ne suis point, ma guerrière Cassandre,
Ni Myrmidon, ni Dolope soudart,
Ni cet Archer, dont l'homicide dard
Tua ton frère et mit ta ville en cendre.

Un camp armé pour esclave te rendre
Du port d'Aulide en ma faveur ne part,
Et tu ne vois au pied de ton rempart
Pour t'enlever mille barques descendre.

Hélas! je suis ce Corèbe insensé,
Dont le cœur vit mortellement blessé,
Non de la main du Grégois Pénelée:

Mais de cent traits qu'un archerot va inqueur
Par une voie en mes yeux recélée,
Sans y penser me tira dans le cœur.

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