The Pneuma Collector

You may have seen IT,

black, inky, transparent

and opaque simultaneously.

ITS rags tattered by wind,

rushing through time zones,

courting final silence,

after ushering in shrieks.

Is the wail from

the victim or IT?

Is the elusive shape friend or foe?

Can we ever know

what the end purveys?

Who calls the tune?

Are we children of stars,

our lives returned to carbon?

Is IT also? Twin origins

or something else?

Most fear being forgotten;

we fear that day, unless,

we are old and tired…

ready to let go.

But the mandrake plant

suggests a life beyond ashes…

a burial that vivifies human-faced roots.

Can we hide under the purple flowers,

or is it too late?

IT travels on cogitating,

“Have you people forgotten

life is cheap

all over the world?

Work one to death,

another will appear,

destitute and desperate.

Child soldiers or else into mines:

little hands finding diamonds,

gold, and coal, making paltry wages

parents can’t afford to lose.”

IT continues,

“Pollution: air, sky and sea,

is becoming the norm

without hope for escape.

You irresponsible people are signing up

to get an appointment with me."

Is it possible to banish this

Presence who does ITS job

without thanks or praise,

except for those in pain?

IT’S hovering;

ITS job is more taxing

than ever before.

Every second, two deaths,

flying off to another harvest

in another country

of this world’s seven billion.

When we see IT spreading out

over a dwelling,

IT looks like a net

to prevent escape.

We’re relieved

because it wasn’t us.

An adolescent

in a psych ward

sees IT.

She’s seen IT before

in the hospital

looking for others.

She’ll try again

once released…

the life she wishes

to be revoked.

IT comes to her room

now and again,

sitting sideways

like a friend

on her hospital bed,

And they converse.

Very few know

That IT communicates

And ITS voice is not rasping,

but a young boy’s voice.

HIS counseling is not

toward extinguishing

or encouraging life.

She simply needs a listener,

and HE needs her company,

so mutual their desires.

She notices HE puts on his best black frock

whenever HE chooses to visit her,

but like an apparition,

HE fades in and out

not of HIS own will.

This does not disturb her;

she’s experienced

ethereal realms before.

The girl makes HIM feel that

HIS effort is actually worth it.

One day HE would take her, but

on this day…

She yawns and falls asleep,

Suggesting to HIM the time is wrong,

Not wanting to make more mistakes

like the many others

who were merely reaching out,

attempting, but suicide failures

not yet authentic of resolve.

Still…HE knows there will be a right time.

There always is.

Just not yet.