Writing is a narcissistic practice.

What do we aim to accomplish
when we touch ink to paper?
Mark something down in eternity,
plaster our thoughts upon and into
being so that they may be recognized,
acknowledged.
Sort through them as we would
a scattered mess of notes.

There is nothing inherently wrong with narcissism,
no matter what people may have you believe.
I've once thought so,
cycled around to the present,
and, perhaps, will go full circle multiple times.
It is in our nature.
We think so much about ourselves.

The only constant is our thoughts
is their inconsistency
so we seek to immortalize them while we can.

We are not our thoughts;
we are the sum of everything within us
when our thoughts have settled and left and
we are empty.

Think your thoughts,
write them if you must,
then set them on fire.

those flowers died
still i tried
to water
Expecting
Something more
And wondering
Why i bother

Only the ash is seen here.
As the fires burn, the heat is miles away
And the city is covered in ash.
In an instance I am in my home,
Watching ash fall.
Trickling down all around me.
Red skies, purple suns.
Our city burns yearly.
The outskirts of here, where I was birth in,
The fires come always on time.
When the energy of my rising sign
Makes itself felt,
The self-analyzing, fair and wise
Eyes of the Virgo always burn the land.
Her powers of critical analysis are
Crucial.
More humans born under her sign
Than any others.
More critical analyzers than bystanders.
More opportunity to connect to the healing opportunities.

I am brought back to my home town,
To schools closed, to hours in front of the news.
Disbelief in the air, death in the air.
Pieces of beings that grew before I was born.
Before my debut, these beings were here
Caring for the environment that I would need.
They seeded the land that birthed me.
Now I breath in their core.
Their bark feels nourishing in my lungs.
The smell always alerts me.
You know when trees are burning,
Their essence released on the wind.

Each year it burns here, change and death
The only two guarantees.
I can feel how my skin felt in these days,
My bones were growing.
They were stretching faster than my skin
And my hips tell the story.
My thoughts were grim,
Dimmed by ashes encircling me.
In the middle of things burning.
Energy of new.
The blackened ground is ripe for new.
I wanted new so bad back then.
New home, new environment.
I seemed to desire for my world to burn to ashes.
Somehow aware of the potential in them.

Sitting here now, I think of my home.
Before my children were born, before I knew who I was.
Curious then, always asking the questions
To know.
Though, it wasn’t time then.
My self-discovery was found, digging through the ashes.
Knuckles raw and grey,
And nails strong. My nails have always grown strong.
So the stripping just happened.
I was given the tools.

I explain to my daughter that
Many things will be lost.
Many lives will end, sacrificed to the ground.
Their resting position, their path to rebirth.
I tell her that things will change,
And after a period of rest a whole new forest
Will appear.
We will watch it grow over the years
And marvel at its strength and pure stamina to be.
The nutrition that this life grows from,
The darkest moments of this lands time,
Sprouts vigorous beings, built on burnt ground.
Founding layers formed from painful death.
I whisper to her, never be scared of these things.
Move when needed, change. Though,
Darling child, fear will only keep you from
Recognizing that the rain will come.
Seeds not even seen in these parts will come.
The fire will eventually be remembered as a blessing here.
So focus on this my dear, and
When you find yourself engulfed in ashes
Just hold your breath.
Just wait for the winds to change
And the rain to come and cool the scorched skin.
And be prepared with your arms wide
For the new.  It will come with healthier fruits than before,
Growing with anticipation for you to harvest them.
They will bring forth the energy you need,
Be aware daughter, life is always rising.

When was the last time
I felt a raving hunger for life?
When had I but an eternity in moments,
on the edge of something vastly different?

How was it me and not you
who staked her soul high
on rolling hills of green,
took long draughts to savour, to condense
the weight of the world into one precious drink,

cup the shortest days in her palm and release them,
for her thoughts to balloon into the wild?

The delectable now—
ripe as berries for plucking in winter,
and all things, like music
must peter
into silence.

So I suppose my question to you
is not concerned with
the stack of newly-minted green in your pocket,
nor the fleet of shiny cars, but
your pure self, simply being.
It’s prodding the heart,
a tiny critter fluttering with wings, wondering:

when will you ever get a second chance at this—
all this storm
and inexplicable happiness—

or will you
go hunting for things,
whirling at mere traces
of power in your name—

or will you turn around
only to find a life
or a lie,
staring back wide-eyed
in endless shame?

© BT

the banners are blowing steady
(fully extended in the hot august wind)
contemporary in style
tightly trimmed
and all gloriously dressed
in the latest colors and hues
it’s a fleeting distraction though
as the caskets
and children
and grieving widows
are rolled steadily across
the burning tarmac

it’s the beginning
of that inevitable
two part proceeding
a skotoma for the ages
delusionary in nature
rich in grays
and eerily reminiscent
of that foreign reign
clipped in silence
with dark roots of fear
set deep in the bowels
of a chapter
of unimaginable sin

indifference as pronounced
as the accompanying salutes
haphazard sentiments that are
cloaked in the horror
of endless
aborted days
forgotten buggies
and bunkers
and rat packs
how could the switch
be set so wrong?

it’s truly an illusion
(this way of the world)
simple indulgence can grow
so beastly and consuming
try telling the tale to the
tibetan monks
or broad peak sherpas
(those boys know how to get it done!)
how to bask in
the ice cold waters
how to savor
the lava hot falls
couldn’t the others
have figured this one out?

the flags have settled
at half mass
and are tinted
in a charred yellow brown
the lifeless dreams
and inspirations now
in the rear view
leif running solo
(exempt of his trusted gunners)
ready for the numbered lines
his eyes open
to the ever changing
enemy at hand