Came into life on this very planet
Full of water, land, and pomegranate
Given a light to block out the night
The star of flame, what a sight!
That boils our body and peels the skin
This isn’t paradise for it’s full of sin
Planet full of fun and games
Oh, that’s not true? What a shame
A place where nightmares come to life
Bond with one other person and call them a wife
Society isn’t built on the foundations of purity
Charity is old, hide your insecurity
Keep those emotions locked in tight
Hide indoors from the sunlight
The cruel and beautiful paradox
Human life controlled by clocks
Where is my guardian? Where is our hero?
The truth is there’s absolutely zero
Yet, still, we all have dreams
We aren’t hostile cause we make teams
I haven’t yet found my hope
Hanging off the end of a rope
Want to clean the corruption with a bar of soap

From flowers to rain to ice,
The cycle continues.
From before we were advanced enough to recognize it,
And the storms meant the end of days rather than cloud particles.
From when we worshipped it,
Blaming ourselves for droughts and turning to unjust sacrifices
To bring the water back.
Water came back, in the form of storms,
And it was glorified.
A part of our culture.
The cycle continues for countless generations
Past devestations swaying into new ones,
Like a teaching passed down from protege to protege,
Each iteration refusing to update.
Soon scientists understood how and why weather came,
And artists drew inspiration from snowy nights and sunny days.
Breaking the cycle seemed impossible,
Breaking the cycle would mean abandoning everything we knew.
Year after year, rotation after rotation, flowers to rain to ice come.
Yet, we’ve managed to break the cycle.

    Wonderful.                        We’re doomed.

Far beyond the gable ends of dark suburban streets
Riding past the furthest flats where paths give way to fields

Where giant cranes with groaning frames are elevators into space
Looming over dark estates, unoccupied and halfway built
A regiment of vacant digs

Set out just like theatre props; a sort of play not yet begun
The porches laid with welcome rugs for when the future tenants come

And when they take up residence and get their keys and pay their rent
They'll surely never think of me as I have thought of them
The countless nights I've seen to spend, exploring every lamplit bend

Or how I'd trekked those distant places, before they'd laid the first foundations
Beyond the reach of tired feet, where fauns or fairies surely meet

The dark and curing plains are real and stretch for starry miles around
The rustle and din of windblown things, the rush of moonlit clouds

And soon from now when strangers come and pick the perfect house to live
And make it theirs and settle in and pick a room to put the crib
I'll stop the squeak of spinning wheels upon some distant mound or cliff
And moving closer to the lip; Dublin twinkles past the tip

I am undoing myself again
The string once held now yanked from its place
Uprooting more then it’s existence
Unraveling each thing
I thought saved me

The remnants
Not even balled up on the floor
But sprawled across each crevice
The light invasively seeping in with authority
Subtly forcing each fiber into compliancy

But not permanently

I lust for someone who doesn't care.
I care for someone who doesn't love.
I love someone who doesn't feel.
I feel for someone who doesn't care.
And so the cycle continues
Because I'll never be enough.

That soil
From which we grew.
And to which we will return.
To stardust.
To twinkle.
And tidal pool soup.

That soil
Our always mother
who will take us back
to bark.
To worms.
And stars.