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.