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.