We are garlands
Hung on the crown of death
Bursting ephemeral worlds
With the exit of our breath
We are the blossoms
Of no one
And the blossoming
Of nothing
We are bereft of garden
Or gardener
The blossoms nobody shelters
Housed in blood, in mud, and in glass
In the rib cage
Of the broken body
That houses this age
Between the silence
And the pounding waves
We are driftwood
And we are dreams
Born of longing
Born of death
Our fingers and senses
Torn and displayed
On the five-pointed
Wheel of the world
Bleeding out into endless
night
out into nothing
I suppose
We envy the flight
Of the birds
For whom god is not dead
And we envy the plight
Of the stars
For being too far
To think of divinity
At all…
Spirit
Inside of flesh
Flesh peering back
Into the lack
The pain of new birth
In your eyes heaven
In my hands the earth
Beyond the horizon
Of the ideal
Lies the wound
Of the real
Of the real…
We envy the flight of the birds
For whom god is not dead
We envy the plight of the stars
For being too far
To think of divinity
At all…
