Composite

Lying against this bed of pines and shriveled stones,

I have come to the conclusion

that life is inevitably sweet and divine yet treacherously pure.

Events dancing like broken shells and bits of soot and brown

falling against the ground, welding into place.

Skies drifting about like mangled tongues

stripped and devoured

thrown against and through,

a greenish ritual of utmost beauty and grace.

Birds with beaks as glass pitchers

holding beds of water as stimulative as they are simulated.

Yet who am I to spew such parsing diction?

I am but a yearning heart sprawled over like a corpse

hanging from a bridge, hands nailed to the concrete

yet breathing scarlet-blazed cause and not boiled reason.

My rivers flow empty with clear tubes

and subtle worthless meanders that crisp and thrash so silently.

I am but a stringed mass

A pale pendulous body wandering about, wondering.

An individual with thoughts of stillness,

feeling trapped and caged,

lying here alone as one: a composite whole, a singular projection,

distant from others by lunges and clouds of colorless, virgin terrain.

Yet we all bleed the same, don't we?

I am anything but the needle in a stack of grain.

We all embody this ambiguity, this frailty, this solitude.

This intimacy.

We are all somewhat of able-bodied streams of ire.

Prussian blue shades of boisterous life.

Lax and lustrous shades of death.

Shrewd and wine-like shades of time.

An aging pack of tinted blotches.

A withered, elegant frame.

And a painting of skies and flames waltzing about,

filling each others missing pieces

like a liquid so generously takes the shape of its container.