camp fire songs

Our world a martialed set of past existences; each an army of an age tending to warm fires and setting up camp on opposite sides of the river. Inward or outward across imaginary lines of mines, why must there always be a "they?" Our democratically wealthy-selected leaders say there can be no bridge built here. Newly emerged, wrinkled sacs of unconditional love, we are forced to pick sides before even understanding there is a choice.

Ah, but to love is always a choice; the most instinctual choice there ever was.

eat of spitted gender expectations.
chew on the charred flesh of masculinity.
swallow the pride of shallow belonging.
choke on the brittle bones of imbalance.
but we still chase away the ghosts of battle with sad camp songs.

Labels and neatly pressed uniformities still adorn, still leash our budding selves. There can be a sort of peace in little captured vanities, in taking another shallow breath. Salvation only for those who sacrifice of self; can there be an I in the blind bliss of conformity?

And we wonder why we bicker so much harder and higher when the stakes have been pulled and the tents are stowed and the warmth of loosely tethered embers has been doused by the pissings of slovenly drunken louts. It's simple really for all self; no doubt, and endless love for each little moment spent enjoying the always present.