Healing Unconsciousness
by Odin Roark

A bird or moth’s wing will flap,
Until it can't.
A road will survive with patches,
Until it can't.
A bridge will transport in spite of cracks,
Until it can't.

The heart can survive bleakness,
but often it doesn’t know how.

What power inspires mind over matter?
What drives the heart’s engine of resolve?

Unlike we humans…

Rain-rich clouds provide
earth's abundance,
a nature knowing of harvest.

Yet…

Even with emotional acuity
Man's tenacity can succumb to the heart's drought.

Oh, the substitutes…

Not even tomorrow's Apple or Samsung product
can provide a lasting change or dressing for the wound,
the shielding of inexorable viscous fluids of hate,
those all white blood cells of mind's cellular debris,
this tissue of what was once the heart,
now pumping polluted hope,
coagulating sentient struggle into lesions of discharge,
providing nourishment for but the process of exudation.

And yet…

A starving and famished morality
staggers across a dust bowl of impoverishment,
needing less parental life-models,
less religiosity mocking secular common sense,
needing even less of modern man's material cure all.

Is this our living frailty in search of answers?

Perhaps…

Some additional honest spirit of heart and mind
can overcome the airborne toxins of empty words,
vacuous actions,
deceitful intent,
commerce healing not the needy,
but enslaving minions with duplicity.

However…

One can hope,
even as remedies continue to grow by proxy,
with shiny A.I. products in hand,
forever replacing the ability to reach down,
pick up that bird or helpless moth whose wings are in need,
and provide a healing only the open heart can assure?

To know such a person,
to love such a person,
is indeed a piece of consciousness to treasure.