Spheres of Fate

People trample on the

 streets as though it were theirs,

throwing plastics upon me, their mother, as if it were rightfully mine.

When they feel cold, they light fires—

wicked, iridescent fires that illuminate the glacial frost,

the glacial frost that is my friend—for it is pure, sweet, young.

The fires burn my skin, they hurt my eyes;

they may be a pleasure to the cravenly eyes of humanity, who fear the dark,

but they aren’t to me—they choke me, I cough relentlessly,

the earth shakes and the crust breaks,

shatters into a million fragments; bits of cement and glass cascade from the sky,

while I spin like a top, dizzied by the cataclysmic impact;

but from the devastation, I find a mild sense of relief,

a cathartic release—

I cannot always be perfect, be what my denizens want me to be. 

The sun is my moon at night; a glowing sphere of relief.

But he is not trampled upon, his beauties are not torn down…

by the creatures that inhabit his flickering flames—no, for the sun remains

as hale, as golden as the ground,

blooming with life, joy, youth

But I am a minuscule piece of land occupied by billions of people,

protecting them is so difficult, for they are never grateful. 

Initially, I was honored to have life—one among millions of planets,

the heavens chose me to house something so precious,

no one else.

But now, I believe that the heavens disliked me, envied me,

for Venus has retained her beauty—she is still as lovely a woman as before,

Jupiter has retained his majesty—still a redoubtable king,

Pluto has retained her winter wonderland—a humble princess of ice,

but I, I have dwindled to a little sphere of smoke, a sphere of suffering,

occupied by power, by blood, by envy, by war, 

as humanity kills the life that had been bequeathed to me.

I will not last long; I will be the first to perish—

I had been destined to live, to breathe for billions of years.

It’s all right for humanity—their life spans are microscopic; they come and go,

faster than the speed of thought,

and the inconceivable destruction they leave in their wake—

faster than I, an old mother, can comprehend.

I will lose my youthful beauty, my poise, my confidence—

it was a hapless twist of fate when the heavens selected me. 

I hope my mother won’t cry when I’m gone. 

A Fervent Fire

(Forthcoming in Sincerely Magazine)

Passion whistled through the trees,
in cold, fragmented tendrils,
through the interwoven twigs and fruits that hung from the branches
in a blissful stupor–
a product of nature’s might and power
Blowing as an invigorating gust
that enveloped all in its gaiety and ardor,
refreshing and inspiring, rejuvenating all it touched
as it playfully raced about, competing to see
who would reach the end of the forest line,
and explore beyond the known and comforting.
Passion burned an amber fire,
emanating an aura of golden light and zeal
illuminating all its rays fell upon,
bringing about warmth, joy and vigor
to the atmosphere, after the blaze of fervor had died out
and crumbled to a mere few ashes
that smoldered weakly, flickering feebly–
courtesy of the freezing breeze and passing moons.
Passion lapped against the shore, in a series of blue waves
that strengthened as the sun arced its way
across the sky.
It caressed her heart, encouraged her soul
to pursue the impossible, and to never let
her silvery moon remain concealed by layers of clouds
in case they weaken the tides’ rage, and cool down
the gleaming passion that dominated her spirits