How much longer will you call this nature your home?

The only difference
Between the blood in my veins
And yours is freedom

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Two Poems In Spite Of Existence

I. A Wake

My eyes tear through these shades
like chicken claws
through egg shell fencing
that keeps them safe
from the day.

This is life

Spread like butter
with a knife over my heart,
and it’s melting
beneath the stars

Falling for the Earth
to be grounded.

My rounded irises
twist and twinkle
as my body creaks
into motion,
laying my sleep
to rest.

II. A Sleep

The length of my feet
stretch from my dreams
into the next.

Step by step.

This is my breath
processing what it means
to be alive
and alive again.

Toes pointing toward the future;
eyes pointing toward stars.

I am.
We are.

Fading Brilliance

Easter echoes
in calm stillness
as your beauty declines

You
Nature
All

The crepuscular strands
reaching into the sky
as you slide past the horizon
and away.

This
is your canvas:
a final reminder
that you were here
are here
and will always be

And in the final moments
I stare directly into your eyes

Unable to see the future

Blinded by the now.

kairos

I listen as the gears grind
like bones pressed by rocks
back into the essence of life.

And in the grooves beneath my perception
there is a grain of sand
still eager to become a part
of the time keeper’s course.

It is this sand
once useful in its ubiquitous plentitude
that fills the space needed
to advance my perception
that this life is a progression

but I turn these hands over
to find lines
less like the distance between two points
and more like the grooves
that press back:

the grooves that
when rubbed against each other
echo the quiet noise
in precious moments

of making contact.

Faith

In my mind
I wake up
to find myself,

but when I want
to live,
I open my eyes

so

through this blood,
I was born
to a world that hates that
I am blind

and I’ve learned not just to believe
in what I cannot see.

I still find solace

in a world full of chaos

Because
destruction lies

it cultivates the knowledge that
the end is the answer

for people to think

And allow me to begin again:

Drought

One drop
to let the water
stop
and soak into
the green ground.

This is my rib
bound to the truth:
that what was once lost
is no use recovering
now;
what was planted long before
has grown wildly beneath the surface
and uprooting
would be a massacre beneath the seen.

And so the weeds stand tall
in fertile soil
as the grass chokes,
grey and wilting,

as the sky hangs heavy
preparing to flood,
the Earth waits
for anything:
anticipating
one drop.

8-Pack

Stolid

white-knuckling the blacktop
with retching arpeggios
lining your eardrum
like a myelin sheath:

your teeth clench patience
but you are never nervous;

your words speak wisdom
far beyond their purpose.

And the way you spin smiles
from your “Hey”
is pure gold
brushing grains
from beneath anxiety

Your voice is quick
and certain piety
to a mind
locked and loaded.

And though you present yourself
a lowly reporter
your eyes are not hidden by your frames:

the names of your disguise
un-aimed to the skies

as you pass unassuming
among the ordinary
through crowds
under arches
over man.