Our Tree of Life burns,

self-immolating inside out,

charred stench of commodifying human flesh,

entrapping memories grown commercial,

messages without information,

histories without cultures.

 

Language primally embracing rooted systems in our racing,

breeding search for compost

not yet fracted and extracted

from angry longing

for simply belonging,

seeding Earth’s surface

to recover shade

from our own souled out burning despair.

 

Screaming voiceless stream of speciating suicide,

passion flight of fire.

 

Hard endings measure soft beginnings,

to turn one last time in hope

for faith to love peace sufficiently

to thrive through flame’s winged purge,

singed yet sung snug,

resting nest of painful longing

to fly one last sacred arc beyond

this softly falling dark horizon.

 

We seem to die

to learn to fly together.