words

the soul it burns like arson,
a flicker in the cosmic blink of things,
split between realities that are there
and those that have yet to be forged
from the dreams of sleeping gods,
a river flush with the wrinkled reflection
of coastal cities or sudden catastrophes
born from an absence of having anything
better to do, man’s primal need
to build and destroy in alternating breaths.

testing the waters with timid fingertips,
fearful of a sudden plunge again
into the depths of your own image,
forced to reckon with the makings
of internal strife, burnt out
even in this early run of life,
before any significance can be salvaged
from the wreckage of your voice,
the lesser species sifting through you
searching for a common thread
with which to stitch their fate to yours,
the threadwork of the almighty
now coarse and undone,
see-through in places it is so worn thin.

-S.C. Martinez