The earth is not yours, not mine —
it is the breathing body of all.
The stars are not strangers,
they burn in our blood,
they echo in our thoughts.

To wound another
is to wound the sky,
to heal another
is to heal the whole.

We are not many, we are one life,
one dream dreaming itself
in a thousand forms.

And when we awaken,
the walls will vanish,
and we will remember:

No border holds us,
no wall divides the breath —
the air of your lungs
is the same wind that moves the oceans,
the same whisper that stirs
the heart of a stranger.

After death,
I will not be gone—
I will be wind, touching your skin,
I will be silence, deep within.

The body fades, the name dissolves,
But the soul—
The soul returns to the rhythm of stars,
To the breath before beginnings,
To the light that dreams all forms.

There is no end,
Only a door swinging inward.
I become the question and the answer,
The seed, the flame, the sky undone.

I will not speak,
But you will feel me in stillness—
When time pauses,
And your heart remembers
That it too is part of the infinite.

Death is not loss,
But a returning to source.
A merging with the song
That sings through all.

So do not mourn—
I have not vanished.
I have returned to everything.

What is there to do?
As fires burn and hopes melt
What can I do?

With every day that passes,
A new dawn of destruction emerges,
For every bird song,
a million keys bashed
to the beat of the working day.

What will I do?
When my food is gone,
my home,
my work,
my car!

Where do we go?
When water, finally prescious,
Our immaculate containers,
no longer made,
scattered across the oceans carpet.

Why should I care?
When I won’t even be there!
I’ll surely outlive this tall tale of woe.

It is only I who does something.
Whilst others do nothing.
It’s pointless and futile,
doomed by despots in everyday clothing.

Hoaxes,
misinformation,
It’s blown all out of proportion,
Quacks,
sooth sayers,
falsehoods and lies,
to scare our children,
To darken our minds' skies.

You will regret it.
you will be the reason.
When we all suffer for your gross neglect.
Living it up on earths expense -
thinking only of yourself.

I bet you laugh whilst eating meats
dipped in fine black oils,
gargling, snorting, farting,
I hope you choke! - angry face

Oh how Respect has died an awful death,
Thrown into Mozarts grave,
Along with Reason,
Rationality,
Responsibility,

What can I do?
When none of you see,
The answers are here,
our hands hold the keys.
Show mercy, show care
find comforts in fertile earth,
for tomorrow, she may not soe,
Reuse, reduce, repair - share.

It is not I who can do it -
but we can.

3-** Earth

The quiet air settles, a moment held,
A breath taken, a pause in the turning world.
Light shifts on the distant hills,
The silent turning of the ancient stones.
A single leaf trembles, then falls,
Marking the passage of unseen currents.
The ground beneath, firm and patient,
Receives the subtle weight of all things.

My soul seeks its Earthen Balance, a core within this shifting,
A yearning to simply exist, unburdened by the relentless push.
Why does the heart hesitate to fully open,
When the world invites such tender care?
This inner ground must hold, though fear
Whispers of vulnerabilities, of paths unseen.
Each breath a silent query, seeking truth.
I long for peace, a quiet, settled space.
How fleeting, the ease of simply being.

The sky stretches, an endless journey,
Where aspirations rise on silent wings.
Smiles offered, tears freely given,
A tapestry woven from touch and sight.
Each connection, a fleeting imprint,
Defining the span of fleeting years.
The reach for heights, a constant pull,
Against the gravity of daily toil.

Yet, my spirit struggles for Earthen Balance, a steady hold on passing seasons,
This unending cycle of striving, digging, and building anew.
Why does the self relentlessly pursue,
When the end is merely another beginning?
The silent dread of unending effort
Consumes the present, denies gentle repose.
A fleeting pause, then back to the endless task.
I seek a peace beyond the racing current.
This constant turning, a hollow victory.

I press my hand down,
Slowly, onto the surface
Taking in all of what I feel
A slow still, a polite chill

I think it's oak, maybe mangrove
Aged richly to a russet fade
I trace the grains,
Nothing to be unsee.

There's hints of umber
And a dash of pecan,
A smell so earthy, divine
Softly coated so nothing splinters

Lines trace the frame
Like a painter pieces a canvas
Swirled lines like calligraphy
A piece of art.

I stand by the river
Then strip off my flesh
Place it neatly by the trees
So the mud can digest it
For their fruitful ambitions
Then I slip down to the river
My bones soak in
The air, the wind, the land
The flesh waits as it gets eaten
By the worms
I watch it all
And shout
“Leave no crumbs behind, please!”
Then the water enters my skull
The wind takes in each bone
And kisses it bit by bit
Breathing it
And I believe I have tasted
Freedom.

A velvet-heavy, honey-spiced cake
sat on a table spread vast.
soft enough for fingers to disappear into,
dense enough to still
even the most restless tongues.
Its candles flickered like stars.

No one asked who baked it.
No one wondered how long the oven stayed warm.
They just took— with knives that glinted like treaties,
with fingers that didn’t wait for plates.

Frosting smeared like territory lines,
plums dug out and hoarded,
their hands sticky with inheritance.

Someone wanted the cherry—
another, the coast of caramel.

Of course, they sang Happy Humanity to us,
clinking forks like medals,
smiling with mouths still full,
declaring the feast a triumph
without once glancing at the crumbs beneath the table.

The table itself is now a battlefield
of crusts and claims.
And the last slice sits on the chipped porcelain.