Winnowing

Born son 
         seul, breathing vision,
                      as we all do,
blind to death's hovering certainty,
      deaf to the
whisper hiss of loss, until in time,
                    our gaze beholds
the
   evidence.
Unable to deny
        decay
or
hush
the rattle warning,
               we
touch each other in hopes that
       human flesh will remind us
                          why
                           we came at
                                   all.  We
share virus of despair, leave incriminating marks as we search solace in arms weak
    as our own,
               wresting from passion, worth, while
                        writhing in tempo is the
 knowledge of futility.
Blazing
beauty in such heap
of humanity.  
We can't help but love,
dealt
such a bleak hand
      and
the sadness
     surrounds,
taming our desires for more.
What
crushing blow to soul to learn at last our fate.
What quandary when we
           understand the battle.
We
waver
under weight,
disheartened by the jump.  So close
                                to safety,
we choose instead to suffer.


The Sunday Whirl