Our bodies are made of crushed stars

That sheet of orange hue that breaks through the window, beyond the comprehension of our materialistic life; why does my skin crave for the piercing hot blanket of that orange hue? What part of my mind is it that understands the shuffle of leaves through the forest that so hush the thoughts of my mind. When the wind takes that orange hot, and blows it against my skin, as if strands of parching silk whispering to the thin shell of my being to let me escape, what is it that keeps that tingling sensation burning in my mind?

Why is it that the growth of the human spirit has been tarnished with malevolence and spite, the hunger for vacuous carnage infecting the mind, where as the bark that your skin runs against only scratch to build up the tolerance of vigor. The manipulation of sound given to us coercing minds to spiral into self driven misery for the grail of what? 

The feathered release their allotted ballads only to entrance, and to accompany the arrangement of the woodlands melody. My ears dip in and out of the water, a plane of cold. But the bitter darkness of the pond doesn’t deter me. The fire in the sky pulls me up, the brisk water wishes to dip me below. The air that resides in my lungs keeping me afloat, in a perfect equilibrium that mixes the sensations in my body to remind me what it is to be alive. 

If we are born from the matter of our residing home, does that mean that our body can speak to the world in ways we don’t know of? Is our home familiar to our bodies, which have been reconstructed in different configurations throughout the eons, that as an old friend come back time and time again, just in a different shape? 

The pricks that stick to my hand and reside in my skin hurt, but remind me of the intertwined orchestration in which I only reside, and am here to perceive.