From Protos, to Eschatos, the human-snake bites its tail to find the antidote for its head

the will to grow
stirs the seed, skull
vibrates at the crawl
of inching roots
churn inside the vessel,
a whisper
scratches at the window
dry leaves
rustle on the moonlit patio,

sink into the earth-blood,
breathe in milky life force
exhale the want to breed
little stem,
balance the elemental humors,
close vitreous petals, bulb
in the cosmic swoon
of individual

healthy, green
dappled in sunlit patches
filtered through breaking clouds, idea
manifested in the buzz of bees
kicking insect feet, and
humming brains automated search
for our stem,
stiletto topped with bulbous node
gleaning self design
split open
to reveal a floral intricacy
bobbing with the tug of gravity
weighted by plump, and
thirsty thought
perfumes, seducing the machines
my neighbouring earth
with my song of self
that in my passing form
a story may be told,
that in going room to room
I’m downloaded there as well.”

the kicking bees
programmed to reproductive frenzy
take of me
each day, as I’m alive
to let them
come and go, though never into the rooms
of my thought-apartments
where I’ve organized, and
dreamt myself into various existence
still rooted, however
to live that I may die, to
be fed upon by my bacteria
encouraging decomposition, and therein
to be no more

overshadowed by the heavy boots of time,
the towering dead
robotic in their march
with slogans
glistening wet upon their lips
Hallelujah, let the war drums
beat triumphant, beat
the mountains beneath our feet
blind before death, eye
wide with fear
pupil constricts to a
smaller point of black against
blank iris, dry
crusts the lid open as
significance comes too late
for, no longer have we
in this moment
the strength
to uproot our withered husks
from the device
we’ve spent a lifetime
to inflate.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.


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