Schisms

And the sky screamed
a rip in the seam of my head,
out of the tree
that grew in my heart.
I plucked a cherry of withering
to cover the crack
growing in my calm
because sunset couldn’t be killed.

But light dies regardless of its heat,
wind ceases no matter its fierceness,
truth felt in fertility
won’t keep it from being barren
even when I dream
the magic of chains

for irony is cancer
having no cure

wishes forged in staples
never is a miracle

it just a season
held as an illusion
during a migration of awakening.