The Earth is in me and in me it produces fissure lines
Denoting the aging process where
Redness and volcanic ruptures
Disturb the environment.
The body heals and repairs and the crust joins together
With reinforced concrete just enough
To make the Earth a place
At a certain age I was taught gardening and did grow my first tree
And then as easy as it was I produced
A magnificent botanical garden
Soon to become a wild forest.
Lumberjacks invaded my forest but my soul – an environmentalist –
Fought for it and these battles became seasons
Where in summer Lumberjacks win
But in winter Soul returns victorious.
The wind’s name showed up short but hidden and difficult to master
It engulfed those who are close to me
To show them the true beauty
Of gravity and core.
So when the wind goes over mountains, into valleys of water and lava,
Then rising and rising into the sky amongst the stars
like a falcon soaring over a nearby village,
Crying at my soul for serenity.
The continents on my hand move ever-so-slightly. It grows. It atrophies.
Like mountains and limestone edge-cliffs. And soon–
Maybe too soon, new earthquakes erupt
To produce new fissures on my crust.
And all of this is due to new positioning powered by underground
Myocytic engineered structures, which somewhat
Similar to the islands and continents
They do hypertrophy and shrink.
Now that Earth has made itself into the self of me I have nothing
To add or subtract, divide or multiply. The only thing I
Can do is go back to Earth as I once was:
United with sand and dust.
And as pale as my crust can be only silence is what I utter,
In total emptiness to few who reject,
In darkness to many who deny,
But to me blessed in lightness.
Sunday, 5thof May 2013