Turbulence

The Devil

Unfucked child of living,
                           you are graceless and aged, 
a torn dirge of wild horses in the gloaming, celebrate your rage.
 
                           Blood returns cyclically,
a metaphor for the breached, crippled under pressure.
                            
                           An old cat yawns, remembering the last time it ate.
An old sinner prays, remembering the last time he contaminated what it killed.
 
                           We tend to lock ourselves in chains, frailty looks better in restraints.
Make a list of life, pick apart patterns and your skin, suffocate yourself with saints.
 
                             The germination sprouts heavy wings, full of itself it sinks
into a moon or a tree, both glisten by the irony of thinking we aren’t free
 
                              to beset the head that dreams of other hopes and other trees.
A stagnant river needs assistance, a drilling a space to breathe.