It is with breath That we draw inward, And, with relief, Release our hold. Yet, some of us remain, Clutching our chest, And curling comfortably Around our fires. We nestle like infants, As our spirits grow Within our veins And through our minds. A child of wonder, We see all anew. Dazzling lights, Lovely thoughts. Until, at once we see Within, we are trapped Docile and paralyzed, Begging to exhale.
The specter was flattered By all who had gathered. The witnesses staggered! Their hearts were in tatters, They moaned with a clatter, As their lives were shattered. And laughter, The clever crafter, Hung from the rafters, Pale ever-after.
Do you believe, that gods can bleed? Have you seen enough, to conceive of, divine mortality? What would it mean for us? We who must develop love Of vulnerability, Of blood, Of death. All so we may draw our final breath in peace, with our minds, and our dreams, drifting in the cosmic seas of infinite night, and lovely, lonely starlight.
He’s given too much to rumination. A little too quick to trust concentration; however misplaced, dull and graceless, a soul in stasis as he passively paces. Shapeless he coils Into an infinite past. A shame, if this time were to be his last. He may never come back. He may run off the tracks. He just might slip right through the cracks. That quiet one, who never laughs, with eyes like shattered glass.