I cling to the sky with silver fingers
Bending in the wind, swinging side to side
Precariously, with the confidence of the thought-irrelevant.
As it swirls and rises, stale air wafts scents to me
Death, decay, stilled breath, rotting flesh - the delights of life!
I fall upon them, sky to earth, stoic to epicurean
Devour what others cannot, will not, should not
And with cutting beak sever the Gordian knot tying mortality down.
A few foiled thrusts return I to the blue
Black on crimson, sunlight on a tilting mirror
Reflecting one side, then the other
Of the inadequacies
Of the poor ground-bound.
This blog fazes fascists
Cathartes - An Aura
Thistle Down
Tufts of invasion borne on hot wind
Scatter like an ivory dream, innocuous and pure
Over broken, degraded, eroded ground.
Unseen, unheeded, I spread, take hold anywhere
Hanging on for dear strife;
Where I plunge my roots
Is Home.
Sprouts recall a dimly held cradle
Rocked by Eurasian breezes, where I was one among many
Sharper than most.
No rounded petals or soft tones, I,
But angular slivers and garish violent violet
Quick to grow, all to fall
No greater or lesser than any
Who fell to ovine teeth or farmer's scythe
In the continental cauldron
Where ingredients mixed immemorial.
Freed from all that, I am free to oppress
As the grass wilts, I grow strong.
As the trees rot, I thrive and propagate.
Waysiders drown in my shadow
Once-soft hills now echo with infinite spikes
Shimmering in odes of deep green and purple, so sharp they sting-
I am unstoppable.
Try pulling me up by the roots;
As millions more put down roots unnoticed
Before you can pull the pricks from your reddened skin.
Air cools, ivory falls again,
In wet flakes, not so innocuous this time
Respite! You think; not so.
Though all that you see of me
Is colorless, withered leaves
And dry husks loosed from life; dead, broken, but still seeding
Silently marking winter with pale shadows cast upon the snow
Incorporeal fenceposts, demarcating my land.
Here I stood, here I will stand again
From here I will spread
And here your efforts fail.
My existence is your loss
When you've already lost the fight -
How silly it is to declare war...
Put away the weed-killer.
A thoughtful tally
When a person dies wrongfully
There are inquests, prosecutions, imprisonments
Someone takes the fall.
But who takes responsibility
When an idea dies?
"Not all ideas are good,"
You might say.
"Not all people are good,"
I return.
(In fact, most aren't.)
Pity, then, that mostly-bad people continue to swell
Bursting the seams of this shoddily-stitched world
Whilst ideas, thinly spread on the ground, perish
From the pervasive and sinister causes
Of tradition and indifference.