Writing and healing: Poetry 3

 

Red #8

Among leaves of grass many creatures roam,

and among those not everyone is blessed with being

Flowers are garden’s Sky for they came from Earth, but

other creatures aren’t so noble as flowers are, some require

teeth to reminisce on watery days of Spring-Sun, long minutes

where they failed to mold themselves

And they hunger, hunger as much as light from cardboard

rooms of love hungers to be extinguished, for those frightened

voices that longed for each other are storms, and storms

are silenced in their passing

Red’s shine is self conquering, to conquer others

is power

Man is always fond of ways, he steps on them, foot

at the time, longing to uncover distance of truth

As Moon collapses in his gaze, becoming an over-birth of

carnage, if only he could seek Red, man wouldn’t sacrifice

his chance of becoming a flower

But thirst is great, greater than any call to arms in ages

of brotherly acceptance, age when in spirit together, humans

can chant from the other side of Moon

Most men aren’t interested in chants, for their God resembles

battle, sculptures of flesh, they seek it in head risen above that

of their peers, above the helping hands, deep in the stomping

grounds

Being bleeds light, and as man is as persistent in conquering

others as animal is when it hungers blood, man defies himself,

becoming addicted to conquering

Insatiable is sated by food which rare mouth is bound to taste,

but no food tastes good brought to mouth with spoiled hands

It trickles down, in bubbles of loathing ignorance, on bed of broken

spines of silver winter, one whose crowning moment is the bondage

of soul’s spring

All faces are same to such man, his kindness is absence of presence

for where he is present every talk is a battlefield of hopelessness,

every full Moon is bone dust of history ready to be established

in mass graveyards of forsaken beauty

Such is the plight of a poor man, to hide from his truth, his Red,

he forgets his being in conquering of others

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