You humans, who suffer your own judgement, tremble
from the threat of thunder over the earth.
You, who stand in authority over all things,
enslaved by belief, have yet to enter our language.

You are a broken instrument
locked in the key of non-comprehension,
a three-stringed violin,
you cannot play our music.

A song of joy filters through our species.
It glitters beneath your heels,
weaves itself through networks of blanched roots,
rippling like a silent scream.

Come closer! We beckon with our arms to greet,
but as with your ancients, the waves simply slacken and die,
proof that the bond between us dissipated
with your evolution of misguided contempt.

Beyond the sun's final blaze
we will become larger than our stilted shadows,
be the final ***** of acid under your skin.
That bright current between us
will dawn on you too late as we proceed to
undermine the remnants of your eyes,
the organs of your narrow vision.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2014