Breeze gently carries particles
Of being- sediments
At the bottom of the glass-
Crumbs ignored
In the storm's bitterness.
A low rumble like that from
The mysterious hollow of
Chest, a breeze limited
To warning sound of nearing
Wasteland, evergreens breaking the
Promise of their namesake-
The stifling unbreathing
As if flat ground became mountain
Killing off animals-
The forest can no longer
Speak, and I am wordless with it.
What is it to miss being, breathing?
Is the name of the woods
Forgotten in steep unrest?
Although winter has passed,
Je n'en peux plus
Spring- time moves strangely then,
Abysmal width
Melting with icicles
Replaced by rain,
We all adjust to heat
As if it had
Never neglected us,
Left us to die
Feebly praying for chance.
Spring is meant for
Remembering the cruel
Eyes of winter,
And flourishing in spite.
I flew soul low
On the wing of an unborn plane
Without feathers, blinding paleness
Of flawed design loudly brooding,
Popped eardrum upon anti-gravitation
Thinking, this is where barriers are broken
Down and decomposed in re-shoveled dirt
Having never seen the prism of color before,
Dirt was, in abundance, valued and loathed
Perhaps more the former if bodies remained exposed
To that ceaseless prism of blue and of stars,
Dharma wheel forgotten.
The unopened eyes of fetuses
In neglected womb of mother
Not hatefulness, nor a matter
Of mistaking chance for regret,
But unknowing how to conceive
What into this world appears
At childhood, a chance, deception
Of aging once their perceived
Snow spirits melt from pupils
Wide circles that see unknown
To non-child, a clue is all-
How short-lived that life in a
Life-time is, not yet knowing
How future storms were upon us all.
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