35/100

Like a falcon

Falling from the sky

Tissues of psychosis

In the searing sun

There is some paradox

Within my soul

That answers to the question

Why we are the jungle:

As if the confession:

I live for the carnage.

Like thunder in the desert

Insulated in the dust and wreckage

As blossoms in the night

Ephemeral and deft

How many æons has it been?

At the helm of my voice

Consumed in pointless conversations

As a perverse misuse of language

In tears of man

I have seen the mind lacerated

it scars in time, I guess,

Yet, this is not of my concern

Like tearing at carrion

recognizing opportunity

where articulating

is a survival tactic

on par with poisons and thorns

reducing us to bones in the merciless sun

Desires

I wish to grow with you
For many changing seasons to come
Where we put the chaos of our current lives behind us
And shape a timeless future
As dreams where you are with me
awoken and new
to the ballet of a beautiful life.

Shitshow.

Running scared through a forest fire

They thunder on hooves and paw

Embers whipped up with each panicked step

As sparks erupt from immolating trees

How has otherness decimated your landscape?

Deceptive and foolish

Immature in every facet

And I watch it burn from a distance and feel an indescribable ache

How has sorrow graced this landscape so completely?

Trampling all that I have sought so desperately to cultivate

The jungle shrieks but only I can hear it—

And I feel nothing but alone.

I don’t deserve this—

to be treated in this manner

To endure some other eon of heartache

Against the grain of the world that I have become so accustomed to

And why? Why is my love never enough?

Why is everything always at odds?

as bairn destroying everything in carelessness

how I have come to fetishize and end to heartache

the word is tolerate—

like a weakness that I have felt exploited so many times before

I feel the language refract and reverberate

As if toleration is a fulcrum of my electric ire

Tolerance as bolts of lightning consuming some cathode

a nexus of my own disgust rendered in a crackling, illuminating plasma,

twitching off in all directions into darkness

setting fire to all that I hold sacred

as if I am retreating into myself

where the trees forget my name

overcome with regret

for all the effort I put into going nowhere.   

  

  

Origins

like echoes

I remember

The twisted vindictive

my grandmother’s eyes

turning their minds

into sandcastles

the origins of savagery

some dreamscape

of long sweeping tides

 we are owls in trees

looking upon vastness

as I was taught

what is suffering?

In the ebb and flow

Of time

Eroding human weakness

Like some childish activity

As if awakening