There is no way past
the damage, the small scuttling
prey in our local
group of flames which burn,
char the innocence away.
I am stained by stars.
It starts so far back,
so beyond your heart and mine
that we must accept
it as our fate, not
fight it as from hope, but hope
never the damn more
for it, for the love
in it, for the touch of it,
the press and heat that
changes it and us
all forever more. Our joy
is found at the feast.
August 29, 2013 6:21 AM
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.