What Cannot Be Understood

What Cannot Be Understood

By Shaire Blythe

Fire me into the burning skies, sooted in coal dust.
Watch me soar, a radiant glow and continue
even as the blackness becomes consuming.

Back on earth, I must light the candle to see
what I’m fighting for, or turn on
the light when dusk approaches.

I’ve heard pathways have a track
that leads to predetermined fates.
We have the choice to water the seeds
planted along the side or let the itty-bitty
sprouts remain buried under soiled dirt.
Not even the water that trickles
from the clouds, like spewed out
diamonds can breach the shell,
propelling flowers to bloom.

I track the crumbs left for me to devour
and fire the hands that know no callouses.
For they only misunderstand my hunger
to be enlightened and meditate with Buddha in Zen gardens.

Most seem to bench thoughts before their advancement,
swerving to avoid blows of gods and goddesses.
They are the ones who moon the passerby
in the daylight screaming “Fuck this,” ‘cause fuck it.
Some might find themselves in handcuffs
being pushed to trial, but they’ll show
the consequence isn’t what was expected—
if any consequence at all.

If the moon had all five senses, it would chuckle
out a jolly laugh along with the beat of my own.
It would see a lonely bench in the park
next to the thicket of woods lost to some and loved by others—
a perfect location to be given a trial,
a snippet of releasing my sorrows of breathing.