A Feast

The orphan smiles.
When he realizes that
he is only somewhat lonely:

Ants in droves make lines
across his feet,
leaving his legs spotted red -
It reminds him of kisses.
Muddy earth
soft, oozing
stench of many lives
caresses him, a mattress.
And the wailing of others
soothes his ear.

He sighs.

Across the fields is going
the wanderer.
Perhaps he is singing.

In the houses, people are touching
and bodies are warm.

Morning comes,
soft and damp.
Already the flies are buzzing
Hymns of praise and thanksgiving.

Decay/Desire

A concrete slab.
Yes, I am lying there;
Night stretches on.

Time runs in reverse;
Memories are now:
weirdly frozen
fixated on moments of sickness
dizzy, rimmed with sourceless light

There, it is rolling up again,
dust and maggots fat with hypocrisy
In my exhausted throat.
I haven't breathed in days.

Deeper in, my heart keeps beating
There is blood all over,
and it dreams of freedom.

They say you know, and that you feel it run up from the tips of your fingers, firing along neural pathways until it registers as a sense of loss in your mind, when a tiny sparrow falls from its nest. You sense its course, know intimately its acceleration and air resistance in the gravity you created in the hopes of keeping worlds together. You perceive the tiny jolt, and instantly see and realize its butterfly implications, as it strikes the ground. You watch as it writhes, frantically, with intense pain it can neither understand nor conquer and its last heartbeat is eternally in your mind.

We pass by this moment every day. We do not notice, and would not comprehend if we did. You, however, created, perceived and comprehended this, instantly and eternally. You will never forget the tiny sparrow's life, its fall, its death, its pain.

What must it be like, to live eternally as you do, knowing the feeling of every life, never to forget it. Often, forgetfulness and a tendency to self-centeredness make life tolerable for us. But was this put there by you, to make societal life and what we call productivity possible? Or are they constructs of society's demand for productivity, primitive blockades to an intended experience of life? Not that we should ever be meant to comprehend all lives as you do, but to take more note of the ones we do encounter. Ugliness, fragility, suffering, death- what if we never forgot them, and felt them more as you did? What would it mean, to see leaves die in the fall, or to see the tiny sparrow plummet and impact? Would we stumble and grind to a halt, a bundle of nerves and reactions? Would the world grow even more quickly old and tired, or would it be more new and perpetually awakening?

We are all the tiny sparrow. Somehow, we think we are so much more. When really, there is nothing more precious to be: eternally known, unforgotten, created, loved.