Shorn Of Thorns

My home is a heart
not unlike the Aztecs spilled
underneath these same exact stars
relatively speaking
between now and then

My temples are DNA, torment and failure

The vanished scent of Europeans in the
wind

My crystal is the sky receiving its journey
over and over
and racing through time, ignorant time
completely unchanged
uncharged by silicon molecules

unformed again
everything continues

The cacti come and bring a story

The gods stumble to make humans
or
to make the humans human

Their fingers are shorn of thorns upon
our sacred purple night
unlasted
by genetic material memory

We eat the fucking flesh fruit
We gnawl inside our lips
The rooftops are made from burned desert
clay

The days are wasted so very far away

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