grins leaking sap, grimaces and burnt thoughts
I feel your golden warmth swept between my fingers
little vanity-ridden things we are
fumes to fire is the ego beneath our uncertainty
but beneath this fiery blaze between our chests
hearth swelling and swarming in the beds of our eyes
and nature concedes to fate, rapids beating on our sandy skin
twisted limbs and turmoil ridden heads, the leaves and us
what's with you? when did you lose yourself?
and i realize that the sweeping winds are the weight of gravity
falling, falling, falling, and falling
the sweltering heat lingers in the fruit of my fervor
is this what god feels in his divinity?
ascending perpetually, as if never truly touching the earth
separated atoms and then me—the chicken or the egg
or is it merely a figment of delusion, have we lost our minds?
still only me, and yet
i'm never alone, am i?
we are chaos — xxxxv
YOU ARE READING
These Fruits of Boyhood
PoetryA man's fight with the gods always ends in bloodshed. Thus a man's fight with himself always ends in despair. something of a contemplation poetry, perhaps *unedited
