Tuesday, April 3, 2012


Even plants require death
to feed on. They bloom
with their thousand eyes
staring at the sun
while their roots are mired
in soft decay.

History is full
of bloodied fields
and rivers bloated
with bodies.
Who is to say which deaths
have led me here?

I imagine Genghis Khan
as one who carried
a killing wind
with every ride.
He also sired
a whole nation's worth
of men, just like that:
the future overwritten
in living code.

Life and death seem
the same some days.
Every beginning holds
a promise of the end.
And we still sleep
in the same beds
as the dead. Someday,

we shall decompose
our songs, in hopes
that other ears
will ring resonant
for a moment more
before the deepest silence
claims us at last.

Christine Fojas
(Because I wasn't happy with the first one.)

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