To resist an opportunity in the midst of our days
by the sunlight catching the inner core, it holds
weakens the penetration of the mind,
the many splitting of the selves,
the gold no one can take
shining, preserved underground
in the industrial concavity of emptiness
a promising clench or premeditated fists of strength

When we have no one, want no one
to be our angels and help us,
when gravity weighs too heavy upon our shoulders,
we travel in darkness with invisible hands,
scavenging for nourishment
in our great desert,
we see nothing but the dust circling and clouding

our vision–

you, you, you, you, you and the I, myself

and only the ignorance or neglect we force upon ourselves,
the belief no one understands our condition, only the result,
the feeling of a profiting party of phony collectors who carry hope and accomplishment
in their pockets, each piece by piece a new cause for a new penny and no change

There is optimism in the light upon those who practice the beauty of philanthropy
who understand passion, in the heat of madness, who wait and listen and care–
they are not proclaimed gods, everlasting prophecies,
they are projections of our most clearest, healthy selves
ones we used to be, might have been, lost amongst our prehistoric, archetypal cages
against a subtly we pass by with a bitterness
until we discover an identity we must define for ourselves
and cure our feeble, outlandish bodies
that stick out no more, that shine as we perform our greatness.