Life Cycle

We have a life cycle,

as do the people and the activities we engage in.

We seem to claim death of the body as

the end of our one cycle.

It is strange, when you’re young,

only being confronted by images of fading,

withering, the horror of what may

come, with the plethora of possibilities,

stories of the grotesque,

limitlessness; the incapability of

moving forward because the consequences

always seem dire.

The necessity to keep moving through life regardless,

wearing helmets to cover sensitivities because

we hear this world with the volume on blast.

When the music is screeching, it is pure torture.

When the music is bumping,we move like

ballerinas with perfect tempo,

singers with perfect pitch,

it is a choice.

In pain, we are born,

Through pain, we learn.

Pain is not the same

as malice.

When the pain of birth

is a pleasure,

when they have

combined as one,

what in the world

can be of singular importance?

Leaves die to go through

energetic transformation

into mulch and back into the

tree.

Are we like leaves? Made of smelly

and the grotesque,

sulphur burping in a swamp,

Death.

Shit and farts and breath and

odor, the body dying and birthing

simultaneously.

Our life cycle takes on a

spirit, encoded in the

space of what is left

behind. What is born must die, right?

Isn’t that what we have always been told?

What we see is what we know.

What about the allegory of the cave?

You can never go back to quite where you came,

despite constantly striving to get there

once you find out what

Becoming is like; the pain that shreds us

despite jumping in like excited volunteers,

jumping beans screaming,

“What is life? What is life?”

And seeing just enough

to run back to home,

only home isn’t where it

was just before,

it must be established somewhere else,

somehow,

a process of creation over and over,

making our bodies, our homes,

our streets, our communities,

our world feel more like home,

prepping our beds just so,

living to sleep the perfect night’s rest,

the universal mother our home.

From the womb whence we came,

towards the tomb where we go,

to sleep, dreaming into the night.

 

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