Roses sang
weeds answered
through it all 
you kept your stamina
though you kept stark 
through the storm
I saw you wilt-
In a pure unselfish sacrifice,
you clipped your own wings
When an eagle falls 
the sum of the sky shakes
And upon his impact 
the entire earth quakes
The spirit of the pheonix is well alive
Only through you, it survived

Why is it that:
the thought of the end pinches us
and in a startled stupor we 
check our ripeness, as if the juices
squeezed would pour onto the floor
at any moment.
we entertain the game that we must-
somehow- guard and collect them with our gourds 
as if each drop can not be absorbed by the soil. 

such time we spend in this frantic feat 
that the seeds never take and the moisture never creeps
to the dirt 

remember: we’ll collapse.
and spill the chalice of our [bad word] life
caught only to [bad word] a [bad word] toil. 
Why then do we not, 
let the pulp drop.
Bend down and build a mound, 
so a new tree will sprout
or [bad word]