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a watchful eye of creative complexity
Some poetry writing:
After life there comes death.
Death, like a sweet fruit—
firm with a light crunch, wet, unsubtle taste,
After death begins life.
Life like a hand abruptly removing the quiet—
forceful and loud, dry, soured awakening.
Digging feet into the ground,
Clawing for the moments before.
Weighing down into the light of darkness.
The light of darkness before life,
The light of non conceived masses of being,
of blood that’s blood
and eggs that are eggs,
of truth that doesn’t exist
and breath that is not needed,
of a non-existing existence of nonexistence.
The light of darkness confirms the dark is lightness.
It’s a light of flat-lines in a place of chaos,
of mobility in a space of confinement,
of flame cleansing structure,
and water drowning faith,
of blinding power over-shining within,
of a knowledge over-consumed,
of a whiteness too impure,
of fire consuming all.
We are here.
Tomorrow I will find nothing,
Lost in shadows and darkness,
The world so holy.
Truth comes forward like heaven on a rainbow.
Clouds dissipating into unopen arms.
Torrential rainfall like none the world has ever seen.
The ground cracked and crumbling.
Fingertips grasping ledges to which they can’t even hold on.
But holding nonetheless.
The asphalt curls and rumbles,
Flattening structures like demolition without the explosion.
The people are blind.
The world is white, bricks and metal no longer an obstruction.
Destroyed or cleansed is the argument.
Building anew the goal.
And waiting for destruction yet again.
We create war. We create worlds. We destroy souls.
And we forget.
This world is not ours to keep.