I reach back through memory and mortality
To inspire that which I am to become
Exciting the bones of my ancestors
Their feathers of black and red and white
The golden rays of dead and declining stars
Deflecting off the face of the moon
"Is life still real if it echoed?"
"Yeeess," they exhale from eons past.
The first and only answer to an ageless urge
Stretching to me, through me
Filling the unfathomable empty
With intimacy and evidence
New issues to nurture
Most seeds remain in the shadows
Dreaming of a shift in the design
Stardust progressing toward potential
Again and again and again
And again the bond is broken
And refashioned
I am remembered
In unsettled frenzy, my soul awakens
Setting alight my future

So which is it
You decide what it will be
Happen to life
Time to decide or flee

We can either die with our trials
Or. We can embrace them
Turn them on their heads
Turn them into a stem

A budding plant
An opportunity.
A Possibility.
Who knows it might be our greatest Probability

Maybe the odds are ever in our
Favor
Maybe life’s challenges are an occasion to
Savor

But it’s our choice
Death. Or rebirth.

It’s our choice to live
It’s our choice to die
It’s our choice to love(ourselves)
It’s our choice to lie(to ourselves)

she was obsessed with this idea of rebirth because she messed up too many times; she believed everyone deserved a Rennaisance, and it was her vision of the circle yeats drew,

and it was for dreamers who squatted in gutters along alleyways hoping to find a muse fallen and buried in the filth;

and it was for realists who really had fallen and buried themselves in filth because their homes were lower than that;

and it was for addicts, who believed they had really been to the moon and conspired against naysayers;

and it was for conspiracists who knew all along the moon simply didn't exist because they had it manufactured in their kitchen;

and it was for sleeping girls with trembling hands who sought out this kitchen in the night whilst everyone merrily slept;

and it was for the sleeping boy who really wasn't asleep but lying naked under sheets and limbs;

and it was for the tangled limbs that still quivered next to him from a dissolved ecstasy, boyish and sad and hungry;

and it was for that hidden starving hunger that still plagued the neighborhood's homes and lingered on doorsteps, begging;

and it was for begging peals of laughter that his mother sent up from the rooftop when the sky went dark and only her kin across town, reeling, beastly, gorgeous, could ever reply;

and it was for unsent replies, for conscripted soldiers, for wars fought by better men and surveyed by lesser;

and it was for less-than-scrupulous masters who hid under their solemn cathedral art that spoke higher than god himself;

and it was for god who left the world to fend under his illusory cloak of stars, so dim it only mocked his fiery wrath beneath;

and it was for that fiery wrath, the kind that incited and ravaged and devastated, merciless with abandon for all of mankind's own misgivings;

and it was those misgivings that had started her renaissance, her quest for glory cores and sovereign minds, for signs and streets and women and colors and light and the end of all suffering;

it was for restart (like a death, but shorter), somewhere between termination and a genesis in vitro (the liminal space found within and without); for her alone, solitary line cleaving the shadowy folds of time, defiant, windswept, miraculous, insignificant glitch through the eternal night; for her, until she commanded time to stop; for her, hungry; for her, powerful; for her, terrified; for her for her and only ever her: the regifted universe.

Mother Spring slept. Sunrise distant. Twitch of
Forefinger, a flutter of an eyelid,
Then silence, Crisp snow on cheeks. Ice air breath
February rose, fell. Cumbrous silence.  

Winter Rested. Spring Coiled. A little light
On the ridge. Mother Spring stretched her breath long.
Towards light, fingers reached. Her body lengthened,
Snow fell from her shoulders and into soil.

Trickling waters from dripping snow, soon flowed.
Dripping sun and dripping darkness. Day was
Never now night. Spring stood. She stretched her arms
Wide. March dripped into buoyant, bright April.

Out a kitchen window, a furry flash:
Against blue sky, a ***** willow branch.

is it cruel that sometimes i am
able to breathe normally,
and to get through
the day without
sobbing when
i think about you?

it's only been a little while
but it seems as if
i've forgotten your
petal soft skin,
always fresh with soap,
your hair neatly
clamped to a side
and,
your aching back which
arches stronger than
any bridge, carrying
all the weight of the
life you lived

those weary eyes,
glossy with tears
when we came to
visit from miles away
only to stay for hours,
with you crying
as you hug us
as we depart
like robots

we could've visited more often,
stayed a little longer,
because now all i can do is
pray in the morning when i wake up,
pray when i come back from school,
pray before going to sleep

i wish that your soft skin
stays gleaming,
i wish that your aching back
is no longer curved like a bangle
but instead straight like a ladder
letting you reach the heavens,
your long hair full of colour,
draping earth

and when i'll see the shadow,
i'd think that's you above me,
when i'll see the rain falling,
i'd think it's you crying
as you miss us,
as you look over us,
as you love us from there,
and when spring comes
the petals dancing in the air,
fragrance from france,
the one that's so expensive
won't even compare to your
scent

please let me shake in your
arms as you rub my back
with the strength of generations

please let me hug you
and cry with you as i leave
you behind

just for a little while
let's be together
in this short
life

From deep within, all of our souls begin,
With unweighted steps from the shallow breaths,
Of every race our young hope was to win,
Against any of the James, Marys or Beths.

From deep inside, we try so hard to hide
All the insecurities we suppressed.
In every person we hope to confide
In how we are exterior obsessed,

From deep inward, all the steps we have heard,
From all the mentors we once could have known,
Tweet just a beat louder than the blue bird.
Right here is where all of our fear has grown.

After passing over the peak of mirth,
We sit humble again for our rebirth