A spark
screaming cries of a newborn,
it is given skin that can be
remade or destroyed.

Man opens its mouth
muttering from its lips
that is forced into our canvas--
labels, beliefs,
aesthetics, morality,
culture, and flavor.
Most stand on this layer,
not know what may
be below our comfortable heels.

When man becomes curious,
the layer fades slowly,
as we fall.
Laws, materials,
perspectives, awareness,
theories, and religions.
This is the layer where most of us--
are comfortable,
yet we fear what may be below us.

When man becomes critical,
the air feels suffocating
to the point our feet
feel the sweat
that comes from the skin.
The layers fades slowly
as we fall.
Self, i,
conscious, subconscious,
desire, and ideals.
This layer is full of
echoing screams of despair.
Below us is what truly trembles
one's soul,
one's realm,
one's given meaning,
and one's identity.

When man becomes unusual,
a middlemist red blooming in isolation,
the layer fades slowly
as we fall.
Nothing,-
but a lonely man
in a small collective chamber.
We only have the choice to either;
fade away to the end,
stay in the absurd,
or create out of raw energy.

There is no noise,
no man's truth,
no sunshine,
and no home.
Above all is what was created by man.
There is only a
naked space that spews fear at us,
so harsh and cruel that we try to stay above it
as a way to escape from it;
wrap it in lies,
or stare at it.

And yet here,
something still follows us,
something that we carry within us,
the core that made us man,
our emotions that remain within,
experiences that pass through our senses,
memories that live like bubbles,
nature that gives us warmth that arrived long before us,
beauty that we tell from our eyes and how we feel,
harmony that keeps us together through a zigzag string,
and love, which enables all and make us go coo-coo.

Bit by bit,
the void reveals countless meanings
that are above the bottom.
The ones, that have existed, or are reshaping and reforming,
the ones, that keeps us alive,
the ones, that truly makes us,-
fear death itself--
unless numbed.

The moon, in its monolith state,
watching the earth as it torments itself alive.
The flames, sprinting house to house,
building to building-
cleaning the flesh and bones of the fleeing,
while it feasts on their names.
"Father! Father! Why are they doing this to us?!"
"Son...because we... are aliens..."
"Father?..."
...
...
...
Chains are put on,
running through generation to generation,
feeding on revenge, rage, and trauma-
down to the ancestral, cultural r’üts of the race.
Until then, the oppressed stares into their ancient scars.
Only seeing their own hands
dripping with fresh bludhymn
for the actions that are not
yet-
committed.

Clouds pass overhead.
Time grows ancient.
"Is it because we are devils?"
-centuries of clouds pass-
"... because we are robots."
-centuries of clouds pass-
"They imprisoned - the humans."
-centuries of clouds pass-
"Why am I born as an angel?"
-centuries of clouds pass-
"Why am I... different?"

These voices echo throughout the sky-
into roots that remember
every life they've ever swallowed,
into blood that refuses
to forget a single drop,
into threads that
can never unravel,
into...
upon...
its own...
endternal...
reflection.

Thus, built upon oppression,
                                        after oppression–
                             after oppression–
                    after oppression–
          after oppression–
after…

As cast into light,
a shadow appears–
a quiet figure, stitched our heels,
moving as we move,
never speaking,
never sleeping.

It doesn’t beg to be seen–
yet it is always there.

It holds what we bury–
fear, denial, and grief;
the voices of fallacy,
the weight of dreams deferred.
In its void,
It collects the pieces
of what we choose to ignore.
The past echoes there.
The burden breathes there.
The purpose waits there.
Still.
Watching.
Black, like every other.

Peace, legacy, desire, love,
life, time, power, freedom–
the purpose we carry,
even in the dark.

Some move through life unaware of its presence.
At times, the shadow devours us as it follows,
becoming the void itself,
the same void we long to escape.

Like the birds that flow within the sky.
Like the wind that goes where it must.
Like art that forgets its maker.
Like the planets, moving by their own will.
Like a name, whispered into time itself.
Like any form it follows, stone, trees, dust.

It does not leave us,
It becomes whole.