“Do the termites say a prayer for the rotten wood they devour”
I’m sure they do.
There is too much destruction for people to realize,
You have to touch someone to hurt them.
You have to hold their hand,
You get to feel their fracture,
Know their every wound,
Perhaps the dance of prey and predator is more romantic than we perceive.
Perhaps the hate we spin from our tongues,
Only means there is room in our lives,
For the thought of each other.
Perhaps the chaos only means,
We were meant to meet.
And perhaps the news of your tragedy,
Will only make me weep.
As far as punishment goes,
I give thanks for your many parts of gold.
Maybe tragedy is all we will know.
Maybe we were only meant to hurt.
But for what its worth,
In this cycle of trauma we inflict,
Be it voluntary or unwilling,
I now know why tribes hold elaborate ceremonies for their hunt.
I lay my offerings,
If you are ever in need;
Eyes that have seen equal parts of joy,
Equal parts terror,
A scorched poet,
With a compulsive need to say.
There is too much delayed kidness in my heart for you.