Evolve
To evolve is to hurt
Shedding soft uncalloused
skin, bruised and sunburnt,
in place of graphene
armor, breaking brittle
bones in place of stainless
steel, resilient, impregnable.
An eagle, upon reaching maturity,
must mutilate its gnarled beak,
days of agony, excruciating pain,
or die of starvation.
To evolve is to bleed
Purging the body of
toxins, pulping gashes
of raw skin as rancid
blood drips out, reopening
healed wounds, uncovering
cancer still lingering, metastasis
slowly eating away at
your sanity,
spitting in the face
of personal growth,
diseases uncured, cauterizing
the skin to stop the bleeding.
To evolve is to know pain
a steady surrender into
one’s basest form,
shovel and spade digging
through mounds of
dirt, exhumed
skeletons, trauma clinging
to your foundation
like rotten roots.
To evolve is to begin again
Starting from Zero, build
anew, on the ground where
your stunted spine grew
gnarled, contorted.
To rip out overgrown
weeds, fill the void that
bore your addiction, discard
rotted fruits, making
space for new seeds.
Seeds to your salvation,
seeds to your evolution,
seeds to your reincarnation,
seeds to another you.
A thin veil
Sometimes,
you’re a gossamer caress
away from crossing over,
piercing the veil between
the physical and mystical
worlds, senses suspended,
logic long dissolved in
pools of souls, worries
whisked away, doubts
dissolved, the taste of
bile and acid replaced
with sweet lifelessness.
Sometimes,
whims of the void push
you towards eternity,
rules of life no longer
valid, a misdiagnosis,
a moment’s glance away
from the road, a fish bone
lodged in your throat, a cough
you thought was a cold, a pinprick
from an infected needle, a routine
traffic stop, a chest tightness
you never got checked out, one
too many cigarette breaks, a stray
bullet, a child in the wrong place, a
premature delivery.
Sometimes,
the velvety vail of death
is not merciful, no greater
reason that only God
understands, no rhyme in
a higher plan, no reason
other than sheer random
life extinguished, in a moment’s
blink.
Sometimes, there are
no answers to your “Why?”
Mauricio Moreno is a 1st generation Colombian-American artist and writer, originally from Elizabeth, New Jersey. He moved to California to fulfill his life mission of being a writer and sharing the stories of others to bring readers closer together and heal the world. His work has been published in Conchas Y Cafe, a Los Angeles-based quarterly zine published by DSTL Arts, and is also featured as part of the Summer Literature exhibition in Intercultural Press. He is currently working on a novel and is also in the process of publishing his first collection of poetry. When he is not writing poetry, he can be found throwing axes at deadwood, being a fur dad, and dissecting governments with his revolutionary wife.
RESURRECTION mag 