old-forest

there is no fire.
the brutal winds of winter
have long massacred the flames
that once allowed their light
to dance against our bruised faces.

our central place,
always adept at holding us together,
restoring worn spirits and
reigniting passion within our bones,
returned to its place
in the earth
where it waits for us to follow.

we move slowly in the forest,
aided by the faint light of the moon
which knows no discretion,
revealing our figures to our prey.

we fight against them
and ourselves,
trying to become more skillful hunters,
more enlightened men.

we dance in the open patches
of our field
and moan in the private spaces
of our tents
longing for fulfillment
and an end.

we gather
with painted faces
and hidden scars,
loud voices
and barren wombs.
we stomp the soil
and beg for it to take us,
to remove us from our apathy.
we love ourselves
and each other
yet kill
when our purposes are no longer served.

it is the way of our kind,
as witnessed by the sun,
as seen in our destitute souls.

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