Climate’s Change

(via Daily Post, Finite)

 

The flames are always finite,

For they rely on the generous giving of

Others bodies for their warmth.

Eventually they get climatized

To the predatory pity and decide to fade,

Ash to dirty ash, spinning and

Cackling like newborns

As they spin free, dust returned

To dust, so fine it lingers

In your life line and love line

Through each wash, growing darker

And more a part of your skin.

 

The tides are always fickle,

Or at least they love to play the role,

Reveries of moonlight lapping against

Their liquid cheeks.

Eventually they get climatized

To the codependency and lean into,

All rouge faced and rogue fingers

That grasp for the sailors belts,

Sirens posting ads for a ménage à trois

Which will never live up to

Expectations.

 

The soils are always frantic,

For they are kept awake all night, squirming

Uncomfortably as history and fauna

Mate and march on it’s hunched back.

Eventually they get climatized

To their roommates quick affairs,

Sipping up the blood and flesh that gets

Abandoned on their face

And begrudgingly proceed to manipulate

And malform, shoving their

Rocky, brown hands into the pot

And letting time spin the whole

For them.

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