Arms Race

Carry away the gossamer soul in arms unrecognized,

Arms disproportionately strong from years of tugging

Against the shackles of life, unmatched with the chest

That is strong enough to hold up the burden of a heart

That bleeds and beats and begs for the adventures it lost.

The adventures coiling along the inside of the bottle

Green with envy, green with desire, green with luck.

.

Slip hands into the stream of the quantum, the dreams

Pulsing and pounding at exhausted temples going grey.

Give up a little of that desire to feed the cosmic hunger

Gnawing at bones riddled with success and the looming,

Ever-present shadow of unrealized potential, the impossible

Dream of doing just a little more, tasting another molten star.

There are diamonds caught here, in between clean molars.

.

And there is a hunger in that burning soul to excavate them.

This is an arms race with the swirling hands of the universe,

A beating of the chests to see whose ribs will crack first,

To see who will die without tasting the silver tongue of the devil.

He must be hunted first, found second, and seized last of all.

Then it is a matter of peeling open his ribs, devouring his heart,

And swallowing the supernova of all that could have been.