We rushed, head long,

Into everything we deemed

Not okay.

As if, by plunging head first

Into the abyss,

We’d somehow control it,

Or, at least, control something,

—

buy by friends-kin-poet-peers

who peering into our own souls

attempted to de-rot ourselves

while unrooting the Truth

of our shared exist-stance

why are we here-to-day

it was fun while it did last

and shined,

deep into the blackhole

of our shared time

this might-be-moment

the articulated universal scram

for what makes us / saves us

—

Permit me to speak

of the blue flowers

Which did volunteer

themselves, their bodies,

On the vinca vines

along the front stoop.

The universe seems spent

On sending such bouquets,

Yet, do we pause

To truly see them?

I took a photograph

As if to validate,

for a later time

Or a poem, such as this

Where I struggle to understand

What makes us human

And make sense of it.

Or, consciousness,

That spark of knowing

Other living things

In a way

That brightens, like blooms,

The cells of our souls.