Patterns of birth and death

The only memory of our homes found by archeologists will be the fruit stickers in the compost,

all the rest will be looted for resources by the deteriorating many of our descendents.

I know it will all be gone as I know I will die,

because I believe in time.

The illusion is obvious, it's now hip to reject Reality,

the linguistic entity that defines our lives.

Sensitivity draws me towards the details of times' plurality

like the plurality of dreams,

but the extent to which these universes exist

is the extent to which I can talk about them with my friends.

Communication creates my reality, and communication rejects what I do not like.

Time heals everything

                                        that shame does not obscure

                                        that is exposed to the light

                                        that is not breaking into dense carbon beneath the surface of my skin

                                        that is spoken into honest air

                                                    with friends and lovers

                                        that is not subject to censure by The State.

It rises to the surface,

painful as a volcano,

spews its wrath,

releases hate-gas into the atmosphere;

the trees breathe, the earth eats, the waters rise and fall,

themselves cleaned by rain and salt, patterns of birth and death.