29. Delicacy to Kindness

A poem.

There is a delicacy to kindness.

When deeds asunder,

Tears forget their wisdom,

And agony fixates upon itself,

Left wading in the West.

Reflection on pondering,

Transgressing the coolness

Of the Source that

Pumps lungs,

Fuels tanks,

Chokes and smokes,

Withers and cloaks.

Whether wished for

Is not up to reasoning.

Dreadful or otherwise

Nevertheless, we pirouette around our hidden Sun.

If only we might notice

The boldness of a fierce Mother,

Upon whom her chicks scratch and gnaw,

Their very ignorance a predation.

Tidals surge,

wail against the divide

Like the body tearing its own flesh,

Unearthing the bottomless pit.

A saturnian sequence

Led forth into uncharted dreams

Yet realized,

Yet fathomed.

How could they even know?

The surge of salvation

Is naught but budding perfume

In beds where petals wish merely splay

To the takers of care

Whom laid them

And forget to return.

Curl into me.

Curl into me.

Curl into me.

The delicacy of kindness

Is the bellow of rage

That crumbles the fortress

And returns with thanks.

It’s wakeful in the dark,

Haunted by nightmares,

Alive with the question

But wise enough to know,

Deep in the bones,

That the verse wishes you

Away, away.

It’s all in your mind, child.

-Jess

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