This


Fragile


Shell


Has


Cracked.


Our world, that lies
On the turtle's back;

Roots planted,
By the Sky Mother's hands.

The moon hoarsely laughs,
Through its throat ****
As the fish swim,
In chaotic patterns;
Mocking the circumstance.

While the west wind
Swiftly sniffs,
Blood rains down
The daughter's left armpit.
Her corpse kisses dirt,
We smoke her heart that grows;
Asking questions to the sky,
In our heavy clouds of smoke.

On my right hand
Lies stains of grace,
Rolling hills,
Blossomed buds,
Serene still lakes.
The flesh of creation,
Fingers that have mastered life,
And flipping the coin to the side
Where death will suffice.

My left hand represents
All that is ugly,
Lying through the grime of death,
Hiding in the darkness,
Concealing its grotesque appearance;

Crooked fingers and choices
Digging nails in search of healing,
Some form of sorcery.

We wash our hands
In love
And aggression.
Pushing and pulling knuckles
In cooperation and competition,
Are we not mirrored,
Ourselves just reflections?

Who is glass

And

Who is skin?

We shatter each other
For a deeper look within.

One and the same,
In opposite of ways.
Blending into grey,
Necessary to remain.

This fragile shell has cracked,
The world on the turtle's back
These empty hands must find
Palms to grasp, to keep the balance
In life's weighty strands.

-SLuR