I’ve held people who’ve felt like homes,
and some, holy sanctuaries.
I’ve loved people who were empty tombs
and tried to bury me completely.
I’ve admired people who burned like stars
and some glowed just like the moon.
I’ve committed to people who raged like Mars
and others fluid, just like Neptune.
Marrow runs like brick and mortar
deep inside each bone.
The spine makes a sturdy structure
for those who can stand alone.
While some are certainly hallow–
a dwelling place for the divine–
others remain quite shallow,
never aiming to be that shrine.
Some are death and destruction–
an empty void never to be filled,
intent to bury you in their corruption,
dipping you into the poison they’ve spilled.
Some do hail from outer space–
the God particle all their own.
With the cosmos written upon their face,
they persistently orbit alone.
While stars do shine all warm and bright,
they flare long and wide with a burn.
The moon vacillates between day and night,
preferring symphonies of howling nocturne.
Gods of war in retrograde,
long past the Ides of March,
oversee war-nations while on parade
and leave no triumph in your vertebral arch.
In the end, it’s the giant, stabilizing one–
whose quenching flood, an endless watershed–
borrowed his story form the great Poseidon,
who fathered winged victory from Medusa’s bed.
Neither sanctuary, nor a collection of bones,
can offer safety from each incarnation.
Your immortal soul is ready for flight–
the most profound of all poetic aviation.