"I like poetry because there are no miracles in it." ~Natalie Eilbert
Only a silent howl of freedom at his death.
Everything's inevitable once it occurs,
And we experience nothing hasn't occurred
At least that once to us already. There's no end
To what we've already experienced, to fate,
To the destiny of the done until it's done.
One person hates her body enough to harm it
Because it let her down so often being harmed
By other persons' bodies who hate their bodies
For wanting to do harm to bodies. Never mind
Ever able to unwind itself from the flesh
It consumes and by which it is consumed, the life
Producing the necessary precondition
For every suffering, suffering-inflicting
Self destined to know itself destined to not be
Anything to itself but destiny to selves
Craving the conversion of real flesh to fictions
Hidden by lost names as the lost Tasmanians.
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