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put courage to paper
and song to voice
these sounds outside
they are blips and beeps and constant
consolation, contradiction, confusion, command
they are made by the damned
a step outside maslows graveyard
how many condemned
do we own?
must we own?
can we own?
who here rations the divide
between the lines and beyond the pale
can it be hells waiting room
and not the wall
who here is tracking for their own doom
convinced, and utterly convincing
they are the damned
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
their reflection like the light
grew pale and dark
as the wind and the drought
leached water off their living breath
and it rained, as if it was once more
tomorrow never comes
inside of her, that silly wench
that opened her legs
and dropped out a new generation
but she was the earth
and the earth was she
when they killed her they killed
their own future
and the void, it opened again
deckchairs everyone
