To be brought to life

The flames of withered fire still burn in a furious gasp
refusing to be extinguished by cold hands
calloused by the axe of the executioner’s eternal duty

I look up to the moonlight of brighter days
deflected by the sun
in my search for white light

I run my fingers across her contours
hands digging into the dust
to bury fingers into the cold of the night

Burrowing in darkness
the light she offers is never truly hers
only borrowed to appease me for the passing minutes

On the cusp of awakening
I examine the speckled dirt for signs of life
only to be reminded of the source a million miles away

I cannot touch this pleasure
I cannot recreate its image at whim
I can only protect this flame for the sake of passion

Pondering the origins of my beautiful universe

The stars are speckled
swallowing sunshine
upon the dimpled cheeks of my lover

I reach for her face
covered in angst
a celestial chaos
among the cosmos

My fingers feel
across the folds
of wrinkled skin

The creases
around her sparkling eyes
orbit around her pupils
for the sake of pleasure

The universe in endless
or so they say
Rome wasn’t built
in the span a day

My love is as free
as the hopes of tomorrow
birthed today

The decades it takes
to build upon her beauty
can never be stolen
or truly taken away

Made vs. Designed: A brief history

If I walk under the whim of the weather
the cover of darkness
is no longer a guise for shelter or vibrant color
but simply a soulless shade
made from a uniform
unfitting to my character

Many times, I have seen
clothes “designed” in the West
and “made” in the developing world
in sweat shops
and factories
where people squeeze and trample
over one another
for the sake of food and shelter
and without anyone knowing
that this is all
for you

They receive no credit
no overtime
no insurance
simply a bed to sleep
and children to rear
for the sake of a family
and a piece
of something that vaguely resembles
what we call a life

We, as mammals, are made to eat, sleep, and reproduce
we, as people, are designed to believe
that we are not absolute
unless we suppress and surpass competition
with the depths of our intelligence
and the pieces of rectangular paper
that we know and accept
as money

But if you think money is only paper
you are a fool
If you worship money
…you are a bigger fool

Designer clothes are simply cotton
but name brand gear and stylish people
are not quickly forgotten

The followers on your social media
are simply inflated statistics
just like the billions of people in the third world
who do no bear your magnificent characteristics

If we turn a blind eye
we’ll never have to wonder
about the politics of wealth and world trade
but if we are curious by design
even if it’s only polyester and twine
we may someday learn how things are really made

Empty orchards

The green of her eyes
is unlike the apples
of orchards heavy
with ripened skin

The cold color
in simmering warmth
soothes me
but the flesh
that I cannot taste
sits heavy
inside the hollows of my heart

Without touch
a lifeless feel
without expression
revealed
my desires
are frozen cold
upon her gaze of steel

I simply stand
concealed
observing
existing outside
until I am invited in
for the mirage of her meal

Tell me why
it is impossible
to eat from her hand
her disappearance
a further weight of reverence
for the heights
where she should stand

Within the emptiness
of infinite eyes
I now understand
the orchards are bare
torn and ill prepared
for the greed in my sight
for which there is nothing
but madness and despair

A broken land

I swallow mugs of mist
topped with hints of morning dew
inhale the intricacies of nature
while the branches grieve the passing
of their abandoned homeland

There is feast consuming the gift of foliage
once abundant upon the lips of animals
a famine cultivated by the hands of humanity
the delusion of gain and prosperity
warped like patterns of demise upon the heads of old tree stumps

The blades of blunted knives
once carving the initials of young lovers
upon blossoming bark
are now chainsaws and axes
professing a deep desire for agendas and quotas

We are the ailment of our stifled breath
disappearing with the fortunes of flora and fauna
subdued by machines of the future
in endless pursuit of innovation
no longer able to choose between creatures and creations

All the lovely children

When I was a child
I believed that babies were born
when two people loved each other
from the bottom of their heart

I did not understand
the meaning of this love
I did not comprehend
the particulars of touch and intimacy

I only learned
that this notion of love
created little children like me
all around the world

When I looked at girls
I did my best not to love them
fearing that a child may appear
simply from the burden of my gushing thoughts

When I grew older
I was relieved to discover
that the power of thought
was inconsequential to the creation of children

Now I am certain
that I understand how babies are created
but I am no longer convinced that I understand
what love truly is