Wild geraniums collected
in pocket, red painted petal stains
my feet squish, squash in this forest
the earthy mud a mossy sponge
with fern and lichen the trees are hung
upon the ground greening with maidenhair fern
my satchel filled with dainty floral sprigs
in spring the sparrows gathering vine and twig
June's an efflorescent carpeting, soft with lady slippers
in summer the wildflowers and grasses wed
when celebrates all the flying things
wooded bees and butterflies in the sun
sparkling with faceted, glistening wings.

There was no kind mechanics to it. No kind of matrix.  It was strange indeed, strange to see what made it live.  It had awareness it seem to be afraid of me yet fascinated.  It was also curious and wanted to know more about I. It did not have any pulse waves.  Instead it seem to be made of some sort of soft texture.  It was by far more advance than any of us. Yet it was frail. So easily breakable.   The thought processor was located in the head of the being.  It survived in conjunction with a beating pump near its chest plate.  Many other aspects had to be working within this lifeform for it to survive.

Prayer Before Birth (1944) - Poem by Louis Macneice


I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.

I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light
in the back of my mind to guide me.

I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
my life when they ****** by means of my
hands, my death when they live me.

I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
waves call me to folly and the desert calls
me to doom and the beggar refuses
my gift and my children curse me.

I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God
come near me.

I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my
humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing, and against all those
who would dissipate my entirety, would
******* like thistledown hither and
thither or hither and thither
like water held in the
hands would spill me.

Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise **** me.



Louis Macneice

You feel that you're falling, but
that's just your body rising to the skies.
See the sun shining upon the green fields
let the rain tickle you and
smile with your soul.

I know it hurts,
it does, of course,
after all
there's a war in your soul,
but, I tell you,
it's only your demons falling
the good in yourself is the one with the glory.

It's confusing, your legs are still weak
but slowly you'll forget about crawling
and start walking instead.

It takes time, you know
after living in the dark
it's hard to get used to the light
but you'll see
your eyes will stop hurting
and with the moon they'll shine
in the highest skies.

I know it's scary
and you only want to hide
you feel you're fading
but trust me when I tell you:
*You are not dying,
you're coming back to life.