Updated: Aug 19, 2021
You must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame;
how could you rise anew if you have not first become ashes? - Nietzsche
If you have not experienced yourself as dust
How are you to know the worth of your breathing
Or of your being?
Dust to dust, petal by petal
And tree by leaf we renew
As if our own souls were the seasons, fluctuating
Like leaves in the breeze when they flutter and fall
Whilst we crawl lifeless on our knees and then rise anew.
The cycle ensues for death is but a beginning
And the beginning is but a ceasing of the end
They say birth is the most violent closeness to death
And chaos but we live. We breath.
We fall headfirst into our grievances
Seething with hands full of lost time
So that we may not clutch to stop ourselves
From the fall into ever-falling further.
Fixity and flux
We hold the crux of meaning without feeling
Our closeness to nothingness
For how could we?
Create enough chaos and you have peace
For once you lose it all, everything becomes possible.
Call it poetic justice or simply scream
And scream and scream
Until it all becomes soundless, screamless.
That’s all our writing ever is; an awakening
From the dreamless way in which we sleep our days into being,
A cure to our grief that hangs like the sky,
Ever-present and all consuming.
A canker of rage cages us in and presumes
As if we had never known love.
All this creation is but structuring,
A surface to hide the void.
You tell me I am nihilist
I say I am but an artist
Kneeling with my wrists tied
Begging the sun for mercy
Like a wingless Icarus.
We gasp for sense,
And structure in the shadows
But with hands raised to a godless sky
We find only shapelessness yearning for form.
And so, we carry the burden of living
And we burn with the words
That never escape our lips,
For living is ever such a heavy business
But with heaviness comes beauty
And it is our duty to hold the weight of it all.
If I could unsay and undo all I have said
I would be but a dead pile of matter.
Our words have made us
And torn us all apart
But without them we are formless.
Amidst the terror we have the madness,
the fury and the sadness of generations
Which inhabit us like insidious inks,
As we mourn the guilt of our past.
The cicada sings again but it never stopped.
For history is nothing but carnage stemming from misjudgement;
Nothing but triggers and aftermaths
wrapped up within us ready to repeat.
We are one great anachronism,
A woven palimpsest of future and past
Whose very being defies time itself.
History lies in the beat of the human heart
Because human nature will never know limit
As it has never known it for years.
We’ve spent so long marvelling at our selves
That we forgot all else,
And in doing so we placed the soul in a girdle
And encircled it with iron chains
of greed and self-obsession.
We forgot formlessness and renewal
In our shying away from the match and fuel
That would burn the limits all to cinders.
So now we must return to dust
And in it, find peace.
Petal by petal, tree by leaf
Dust to dust, we breathe and cease.
Burn now, alight, alight, be free
And only when you've become ashes
Can you truly 'be'.