stone paper scissors

 

sometimes in the darkest days

I forget who I am, that we are

each of us, over a million years old

in the warm endless cocoon

of planning and civilization

the dire thread of survival

of our children, in this reality

is a matter of mere practicalness

sometimes wombs must be dissolved

and tombs must be burned

lines must be blurred

new genders must be resolved

to present the blank canvas

to a beleagured species on the brink

so we may each of us

still hanging on by the thread

be creative about life and living

instead of turning on each other

the land of earth fire on its nemesis

the lands of wind water

its all very meta

because once the brahmastra is used

the spell, it breaks

and of course, if the brahmastra is death

in an instant, of an entire specie

the only spell remaining, is fear