A deep need, like a sickle,
Cuts through thoughts and refinements
Until the tip breaks against
My nature,

Open, thriving, cursing,
Casting spells and aspersions,
Playing at bits and soundbites to ward off expectation,

That sickle swings into the core of me.
Until the tip breaks against my nature,

And I ask again,
For one final permission,
To be everything I am,

From someone as mortal as the universe.

And it is granted.

But I grunt and curl around a wound,
Bleeding instructions on how to heal the world,

Knowledge holding water like a rag,
While intuition rages and fragments identity,

That sickle swings into the core of me,
The tip breaks against my nature,
And I ask to be excused from everything I am,

Because it means holding still in the fires of my friends,
Until we learn our way from devastation.
And I'd rather those conflagrations not exist at all.

And then the sickle swings again.