The Sense of Suffering
The same dirge that plays out for you
Is the melody that rattles the storm of heavy sap
With the pounding echo of its passing,
Drives the mouths of streams into contortion,
Congeals the flesh of blue fish bound
Beneath the frozen lattice.
The yellow pain that eases organs, old
As they tighten into inertia, cease to throb
Begging itself to be forgotten,
Is the one that worms itself between our fingers
Bent in bloodless white steeples
To bridge the buttresses of light between us.
The hand that licks the flame, unscathed
Is the one that reaches for the match,
The hold they keep on formless things,
Despite the suffering that marks the catch,
Weaves a tether between their tongues
That roll restless in mouths full of trash.
Why, then, do they all thrash
Against the passing currents?
Why trace the ephemeral tail of the arrow
As it moves through shadows, catches wind?
The force that flutters the hearts of beasts
Peels the seasons from the trees
And reeks of moss and dirt collapse,
Is the one that binds us briefly
Though we implore it, loving blindly
Against all nature, yet to last.