What We Must Do To Save Humanity
Black wires hum beneath the skin of morning,
and we, bright amputees of feeling,
polish our mirrors to a sterile shine—
no fingerprints, no ghosts allowed.
The heart, once a red cathedral,
now flickers like a faulty bulb,
its saints exiled, its hymns replaced
by the thin arithmetic of survival.
What must we do?
Break the glass we have become.
Let it cut—yes, let it cut—
until the blood remembers
its ancient, furious river.
We must kneel in the ash of our own making,
press our mouths to the scorched earth,
and listen—
not for God, perhaps,
but for the small animal breathing beneath it.
We must gather the fragments:
the child’s unguarded laughter,
the tremor in a stranger’s hand,
the unbearable weight of another’s grief—
and hold them,
hold them as if they were our own bones.
Refuse the anesthesia of indifference.
Refuse the quiet murder of looking away.
Stand in the wound of the world
without stitching it closed too soon.
Love—
not the porcelain king,
but the feral, unslept, breaking kind
that howls in the night
and refuses to die.
This is the work:
to remain.
To burn without becoming ash.
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