I.

The tropical green was a shade of virtues

that had not grown dim, the exotic bronze calls

of the bird of paradise echoed through

the universe, with a tapestry of lights

and shadows revolving as pencil-marked grace notes.

Deep within the stars

of its pattern, were the gems of valor,

dictating the beauty of returning

to home, the softened light, and the fear of emptiness.

Yet death’s requisition!

Aloneness, before their cameo onyx God.

What thistle rooted self in the conscience

of man, a thorn, embedding itself

in human flesh, an unfamiliar pain

and requisite suffering, hollowing

his eyes into a vacant stare, inane,

the trivial, a competition in

improvement—and weakness, avocation.

We decree our ordinance to conserve

all that remains, in one declamation

embodied by the hills we left behind,

the insult hunger, too heavy to change.

Emily Isaacson