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
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