My shadow reaches all the way to hell.
I am a mushroom cloud of destruction.
My feet are rooted in the Earth
and yet my head is seeking Heaven.

I feed on rot, I rise from dirt.
I animate the inanimate matter.
I possess a soul,
but is it more than sum of chemical reactions?

I am a bipedal bionic flower
capable of questioning my own existence.
I know too much and too little in the same time,
the imbalance keeps me on the edge
and makes God laugh.

Will I lose my petals to the clouds
or will my roots pull me down?
A part of me must rot to feed the Earth
when other parts of me must blossom
and bear fruit to feed the others.

I choose how much to give and how much to take.
I live, I choose. I die, I choose.
I wait, I choose.
The choice is inescapable.

I grow old. I choose.
I give birth to words.
I choose.
I map the clouds,
I chart the rain
only to realize that my labor was in vain,
for I was struggling to sculpt the shape of change.
The outcome is but a rubble,
the fruit of endless chipping.

Do I exist to create rubble?
Is this my purpose, to be the noise?
My head is in the clouds,
it does not see the Earth.
For better or worse
my sins forever chain me to the ground.

The only thing I am sure of – I tried.
I chipped at everything
but could not tell my sculptures
from the rubble.