I suppose it makes sense,
bodies have limited shelf life unlike almond butter
atleast it comes with the option of being stored,
it can last up till months, but us?
We crumble like wet paper,
our fibers torn when neglected.
Bodies are conscious but don’t have consciousness
they care not for rules and regulations
like potpourri evoke fragrant kisses;
painting the soul in shades of atomic tangerine,
rose and bittersweet shimmer— what am I?
Why am I here?
Will it matter when I am gone?
The answer perhaps lies in existential animateness
I am alone
but not really in my query of the universe;
this pattern is decades old,
with the moon and stars bursting for everyone to see—
birth is only the first gate,
like Persephone I bathe myself in the devastating light.
Photo credits: Laura Berger Illustration, Pinterest
Posted for “Play It Again” @ Real Toads
And Posted on Open Link Night @ dVerse Poets Pub