Heaviness of humans

If a human breaks he becomes
rounder with bread on his sides
heavier for others to hold up, once more.

on differing by nature of poetry

She touched death with his hand

cold and hurtful, so they called for the snow 

to manage to take her back from her 'state'

she was mad, they said

I am a poet, she said

meeting of bodies

they say that the meeting of souls is 

like the meeting of families

there is a rush to something relevant

airy, and windy

there are soft vein in the toughest bodies

no one thinks when you hug

another that you are accepting everything 

all the living cells, the ones dying 

the ones about to become something or someone 

else. This is how the meeting of souls 

happens, brief and brisk 

you decide to abide by the laws

that everyone resents yet no one 

has stated true. This is what happens 

when my soul meets yours 

there is a hint of the wind

as I embrace your cells

all of you and none of you too

this is how souls meet, a little late 

to the parties surviving 

purring, in a time and

a body undecided by 

circumstances. 

war-lands

At eight years old I knew death was a journey

somewhere where angels await, my mother held me to

her chest as I sobbed for my grandfather's blue eyes

he is well in heaven she said

At twelve I knew death was a braid detached

and picked out of the rubble

I cannot forget my mother's

rush to close my eyes

Don't let the kids see

Don't let the kids see

she said

A little bird

She arrives at the exit of the cage
thanks its bars for the warmth they provide
the threshold is too warm, outside the wind blows

Ignorance is a bliss

It is average, to want to know

to open your fist that's been too closed to 

the outside wind, the sky's calls

but trust, the things unwanted don't arrive to you

they say ignorance is a bliss,

when the number of the corpses rises in 

your backyard, when the sound of 

the bombshell drowns people somewhere 

you will tell your ignorance is a bliss

the newspapers don't speak ill of the dead

they detail everything to perfection 

the fall, the breakage of the bones 

never an ill adjective or an expectation 

of what might have been rambling 

inside a dead man's brain

but your ignorance is a bliss

when the leaves are filed away, 

without your knowledge to the houses

you've destroyed with your desire to selfishness

you will know that this ignorance is a bliss

bone or a bane there are things you are not

supposed to know, nor guess, nor make use of 

like the mysteries you seek a lifetime at exploring

the breaking of the elixir into main ingredients 

the gathering of your belongings to cook the potion

add a little bliss, with ignorance 

the picking of flowers

Small, the concentration of flowers
in a patch, close to everything natural
easy like picking out plastic stems and patches of sand.