While Alive

by Renwick Berchild

When we fall down, when we land, when we lay
upon the bedrock, do we look up? Or do we close
our eyes, and make do, roll the dirt around us,
invite the insects to have discussion, play with god;
and that we wonder, even dead, still there is hunger,
an ache that navigates through, presses cleanly
a palm against our cognizant chime, ever ringing,
ever feeling, with phantom sighs; so it burdens us
to keep believing, as we will ever only posses one
sight, that of our body, though we might question
what it would be like, if we were more, if we could
jump from form to form, ignoring ends, ignoring time,
our muses, striking hard, against our foreheads;
solemn deliberations, heavy liberty, to only extend
towards the souls of others, while alive, so we look.

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