say it with your chest hair

Life is absolutely
     fucking
     fickle,
and it certainly does not attempt
   to
veil its
   truth
nor
     flounder
about within the shadows of deception or 
     facade
nor present itself
   to
be anything but;
yet, our human, even
 with
possession of
   that
knowledge;
some even having been bestowed a manuscript of lessons correlating aim
     for
   this
particular perceived
 wisdom,
still contrives
   to
err in such a
 way
   that
   transmutes
our gratitude,
 when
left unspoken, into an inability
   to
   transcend
the burden of contrition;
an encumberance encased in and
     formatted
by precision execution of (but maybe, more accurately, a lackthereof),
small articulations of appreciation left
   to
clamber in darkness behind
   two
lips;
horizontally aligned in pledged allegiance
   to
negligence by silence
 wholly
unanticipated;
     faced
 with
contingency, emerging an alchemist of our own afflictions
   to
   steadily craft a metamorphose of our gratitude, ever-present, and genuine, into a shallow cavity
   to
echo
   the
perpetuating hum of
pressing
guilt;
guilt
only poisitioned
 with
power by grief
reflecting in hindsight
of
     fumbled
opportunity by means of muted mouths, boasting
   thoughts internalized
despite designed to
   readily
fall upon eager ears;
blistering silence
     coiled to shape a romancing embrace to the amygdala
 weighing
in on you like a burlap sack
     filled
 with
stone slung over your shoulder
 wherever
you
 wander
or
 weighing
in on you like remembering
   that
   the
stars, tantalizing in
   their
glisten and illumination;
burned out long before you could become
     formally
acquainted
 with
one another,
and,
 while assuming to
weather the weather
 whatever
   the
     forecast
predicts, it can be easy
   to
dismiss and insist
   that
   the
sunshine, albeit warm, does not reach
   the
     flesh
of your
     feet
poised
  clung
    grounded
atop
   the
earthly soil