Hello GLP and Happy New Year! Here's a poem I wrote for those of you into that sort of thing.

I won't link to my personal blog where this poem is posted at because I'm not sure if that would count as self-promotion or spamming but I wrote this so posting it in it's entirety is not a copyright violation so I should be good! Not saying it's that great or anything but I like it and after some deliberation I decided to share it with all of you. If you enjoy it or it resonates with you let me know! Would love to hear from you. I'm gonna be around for a few hours working on some projects online and will check back in from time to time so always open to chatting and making new friends.

"This Broken, Wounded Earth" (title subject to change as I really didn't want to give some hippie 'we-are-the-world' type of vibe to it but maybe it came off that way unintentionally so sorry but not sorry)

Quiet dissonance lingers in the alleyways of my mind,
while memories dance like raindrops blown by airs of change.
Perceptions falling,
floating,
Crashing down against the hard, cold concrete;
That cobblestone road of entrenched belief.
One finds a day too late, or a dollar short,
That everything they once built their world around,
Is nothing but a house of cards to go with their origami identies,
Paper mache masks to don, one for every occasion.
But the fires blow in from the four corners of the world,
the flames are fanned by these airs of change.
And all that does not serve this broken, wounded earth;
and everything that is steeped in illusion and deceit,
This will all be burned away like chaffe,
And to the wind will rise the ashes of the false self,
Nothing will remain and the fires will cause all flesh to melt and rot,
A feast for the birds of the air and the beasts of the field,
Death and destruction gives sustenance to these,
And breeds a continuity of life, now renewed.
Those who have long since fled underground,
These wise and rejected men, women and children;
Who have found their sanctuary and solace in the shadows,
Buried below the rich, damp soil of this broken, wounded earth;
The kernels of wheat and all manner of seed,
These are the children wrought in the deep and brooding bowels of the abyss.
These who were shaped and sculpted by pain and sorrow,
Who have touched the wounds in the collective consciousness of humanity,
We who have caressed these wounds, nursed them, examined them carefully,
These sons and daughters of suffering who rise like the mighty phoenix,
Called to serve as the wounded healers and to shine brighter than the firmament,
In a world plunged into darkness and despair.
Like the nocturnal creatures of the night who have eyes to see,
Who comprehend and navigate through the blackest of depths,
These wounded healers, these children of pain,
Will never lose their way upon this broken, wounded earth.