Souls aren’t given, they are cultivated,
They’re nourished, assembled, wound,
Woven, and stitched. They’re painted,
They’re written—they are composed,
Performed, danced, and sung.

People aren’t born until they
Give birth to themselves
The wet birth is the
Exchange of the embryo
From the mother’s womb
To the womb of the world,
To which so many come
To find that their deaths
Are no different
Than stillbirths.

Succumbing to the most basic
Whims of instinct and conditioning,
The person is aborted
And this precious life
Become a cadaver’s
Hallucination.

In nature’s endless halls,
Waste is the only sin

But to embrace the decrepitude,
To not turn, run, or hide,
Is to find the source
Of true strength

To reject not one part
Of the human condition,
To find light in the most
Oppressive shadows,
To smile at the absurdity—

This is to be born,
This is to have a soul,
This is to be alive.

I never look away.

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