I stand on pedestals
of thorns and rose
petals, prick and the blood flows.
my ragged shoulder
sore at the socket
pops and I feel the pain
the forever far off sound
of percussion, the suction
of ears as they make meaning of chaotic air
as the ground trembles,
the wind passes
through space and time
passes through our very fiber
but still accounting for the toothless decay
of humans thin,
or rotten in old age
against the supple nakedness of young skin,
ever met with ever.
The glory of sunrise matched only by
a night spent waiting for its rays to pierce my flesh
as arrows pierce armor as bullets shred for death.
And yet the sun rises this cool September morn.