The possessions of the dead – stare and haunt.
Green leaves so wet,
drip recent rain.
I want to grasp and clutch and feel
water running through my veins.
We are Nature.
He will always be in love
with his carers and helpers,
his carers never loving him back –
they will dance around his feelings
and string and elude
he will crack.
We are all carried by the living after we die. Existing in reality – the now – through the actions, thoughts and words of the people on whom we have made impressions – manifesting as a quote, a memory or a particular nuance of behaviour that someone close to us has taken and chosen to make it part of them. We are like little seeds of consciousness that sprout and spread and fuse with other forms of consciousness. In the end we are all working together; we are all contributors to the future evolution of life; we are immortal – yet each of us has only a flicker of a match to set our stages.
(Feedback and constructive criticisms welcomed)
A welder, young and yet aged –
skin brown, dry and wrinkled like cracks
in a hardened and arid dirt plain.
His body wrecked, from a mixture
of harsh sun, heat and sweat.
Joints crack as he slowly passes through dim passageways
of a blackened and slipped steel ship,
desperately in search for water,
longing to quench this insatiable, persistent thirst.
He mustn’t take long, for seconds do not pause for the poor.
This is hunger.
Lifeless dull eyes protrude from bony and dry red sockets.
Silver and greasy hair flows from a hardened and flaky scalp –
like a wild horse’s ungroomed grey mane, riddled with flies.
Those same still eyes gaze not far ahead –
existing as a tool for navigation and nothing more.
Beauty long ago flew this coop –
the mind of a battered and beaten labourer.
Twelve hours a day he sparks and slaves –
scratching for tarnished pennies –
gruellingly welding smouldering bulkheads in a heat so enveloping.
Smells of torrid metallic smoke singe nostrils and linger like the stench of death.
Bear witness to the unconscionable degradation of mind, body and soul of man.
Where is soul?
A well dressed child with wet ears,
preaches safety and profit as if speaking to a self-aware pet.
Which one sir,
safety or profit?
Slave or Human?
Stare into those lifeless dull eyes, and see no trace
of this welder’s once innocent and inquisitive soul.
Witness, I plead you –
yet another unrecoverable spirit –
victim of an economy so industrious,
produced by a species
beautiful, black, orange and sprawled –
sits at the centre of his well spun prism of steel strong web.
Invincible, like a king.
Consuming anything and everything that enters his selfish trap.
He seethes as the pesticide invades his being –
twitching, resisting, this cannot be.
Falling to the ground – broken, withered, bound;
death cries imminent.
Who am I?