We are fireflies:
scattered in disharmony
moving within jars.


Third World

Arrows on water
free fall,
knocking into sienna clay of
drought filled wells,
peace, drowned in easy breaths
suffocated from arid vapor,
a first world war
waged with third world casualties.


My uninspired attempts at masterpiece
sear the tips of my fingers that charcoal infinitely 
onto innocent paper, scarring its symmetry with
coarse words whose sounds scrape, strangely
unaware of their existence, against each other
etching impulse into, my, reality
that of imitation mass produced 
norms that confound the essence of  life. 


If I was cut from a different cloth
a silk that could bend but not break,
finely woven with hand-me-down threads
actively aging, blended colors and adorned
by frayed ends breathing off small strands
of personality distinguishing my
quilted spirits from one another,
perhaps cloth covers would be
a relief before a means to disappear
unevenly, from the world.