poetry

i die in the bow wave.

can i set my thoughts aside?
i get so absorbed in my inner world
that i miss the simplest things:
ephemeral yet all-encompassing,
the strokes defining our sense of presence.
should i take stock of what i missed?

the sunlight through the fog.
the arc of falling water.
the rising of the wind.
the echo to a footfall.
the rumble from a train.
the heartbeat of the city.

all i want
is to be
enlightened
and part of this world
all at once.

i am born in the wake.

one day in 2020 i woke up at 4:30 to the sound of thunder and the flash of lightning and a bizarre orange glow filtering through the curtains from the sunrise filtering through the thunderclouds and as i looked outside at the tinted world i thought "this is what the end will look like"

except i know the end won't be all that.

the end will come quietly.

saw a star today as I was walking home
a star I saw fifteen years ago, the first one in the evening blue
under which I anticipated a bright and vivid future
devoid of worry and strife
a harmonious life for all, promised
didn't we, after all, deserve it?
except the promise has been well and truly broken for a long time

how do you miss a future that was never meant to be?

a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears the sound.

a bird loses their nest, the same nest they spent days building.
newly nomadic, the bird sets out on another flight and flies too far.
the bird must learn to live in the city.

a youth with no purpose hears birdsong in the park.
filled with inspiration, he goes on an impulsive camping trip.
he uses the branches from a fallen tree to make a fire.
he dreams as he stares into the flames, and discovers his destiny.

bugs crawl over a buried fire ring towards a rotting log.
each one takes what they need from it.
each one has unseen struggles, losses, and victories,
begetting yet more struggles, losses, and victories.

the tree cares not about whether it is remembered.
the tree was always significant.
it is engraved into the memory of the world.
its passing had consequences, myriad eternal chains of causality.

a tree falls in the forest. the sound doesn't matter.

the bloodshot eye known as the Sun looks down with contempt pity indifference
the smoke an acrid curtain between each person and every thing
you're not sure if you're still dreaming

you hope it is a dream
maybe the fires aren't real
either way, you p r a y for something to change
but every time you pray, the smoke loiters longer

it's not distance, it's just separation
it's not hell, it's just purgatory
not a reaction, just a consequence
not a punishment, just an admonition

staring out at a trail of lit-up logos
pushing away the darkness (no, pushing it deeper where nobody can see)
from the window of a building with that same kind of Gods-damned light
wishing that they would flicker