We are not the kind who dies.
We fall out.
We cleanse.
We gulf through the wickedness.
The white squall.
The burned storm.
At the end we are neither humans nor beasts.
At the end we are starting to be.
This - when we emerge the most, emit the best, hoard the brightest.
This - when we are weather
This is why we are under the weather sometimes
But much deeper than any
A shape or a being at this plane
We were drawn to
Not in order to spawn or to prey
But to reap
As if choosing which ones to be mended - pulled further -
Which ones to conclude.
The sharper we burn
The sharper the heaven above you
The sicker the weather.
For all the sickness you are
We are the kind
Who hates your sickness most
And tides to rinse it.
psalm 1612089
© Copyright: Виллард Корд, 2018
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