stick and stones and electricity
that's what you are made of.
there is a spark, a burning to this world.
it'll hurt, when you fall. i know it will.
made you those wings myself.
try to imagine: lit match, candle flame,
bare feet in the snow.
turn your head, avert your gaze
but your hand reaches out, body leaning forward.
resistance can only last so long. i should know.
you tried, baby,
and that has to count for something, right?
sticks and stones and sparks
that's what you are made of
what you will return to
in the end, your end.
hurts to even think about
constellations flickering in and out of existence
my solemn oaths following right after.
it'll hurt when you fall
wanting to so badly despite
or maybe because.  i know. I know.
made a mistake in your creation
handed down a flaw
one of my very own
sins passed along
side by side with that ratty teddy bear.
stitched right in.
i didn't mean it. too late.
this wasn't what i wanted. too late.
you burn the way i do
you'll burn the way i do.

At the feet of the sublime
Sculpture of this Galaxy
I am in awe of how quickly
The billions of years went by

A dream of the key of water
We walked upon a floor of
Crystal, in many forms
And our souls traveled to peaks

Virtual landscapes and subliminal
Recognition that we had seen
All that we visited there, experience
Was itself an invocation of

The highest order, capable of
Giving us emotions of the divinity
Of things, the lips of the sun ablaze
As a forgotten god laughing

Barefoot we made it through
Evolution like a story of all those
Sleeping lands, we created in them
With the will of our intelligence

It is not possible here to reproduce
All the characteristics of the original
Edition of the human journey
Progress is a succession of signs

The courses we adopted were somehow
Emphasized by instinct, like
The yearning to speak or the hope
That if we write about our consciousness

Something of our independent uniqueness
Might separate into others, like how
A poem influences other writers.