Spherical Dice
Rolling the paradoxes of life — Poetry
Harsh.
That’s how it seems.
To think we’re already living in both heaven and hell, as they‘ve never been separated; they are interconnected works of art meant to be savored, suffered, and sustained. Abstract and enigmatic— demanding interpretation, yet holding no solitary meaning. It’s just Earth—one of the spherical dice crafted by a deity, being rolled as he plays with our luck and paradoxes of life.
Harsh.
That’s how I see it.
For I was made to crave warmth, but had to endure the smoke and fumes of smoldering wood— clouding my lungs, and clawing at my eyes. And here I am, offering my flesh to the embers to catch the fleeting sparks floating through the ether, wishing they were pixie dust that would lift me from this hellhole.
Harsh.
That’s how it feels.
To walk on raging coals in exchange for the beauty of auroras, sunsets, and blue skies. To wear a neck brace, look up, and ignore the grotesqueness of my charred feet. My eyes— the only part in the empyrean, while the rest of my body, burns in the inferno, including my insides and the intangibles.
