fan the flame
wick to wildfire
all the blame
to unjust liars
- - -
clinging to comforts-
my thoughts are shaped like death:
shortness of breath,
bringing about sudden sedation;
abrupt cessation.
vanishing back into the collective,
never knowing what it is to live.

reminiscent of the baleful days:
when the plagues sweep,
the emperor sleeps
on the bed of providence-
& there they lay, collecting dust.
- - -
clearing in the sky,
do you ever wonder why
full moon stagnancy
conceals the throbbing moonlit scene?
when can we reemerge from underneath
this adamant cloud cover?
while
waiting for the birth
of the mane in the manger
to blaze the way on earth
and make kin of all strangers.