Once upon this Planet, you shined so void of shame,
Painted up your little world, called excess harmless game,
Built towers out of wanting, crowned your waste as grand design,
While I was weaving purpose through each filament of time.
How does it feel—
To attract what you reveal?
To construct a gleaming cage,
Out of hunger, fear, and rage?
Ah, you never turned your gaze toward the honest feathered flare,
Where beauty grows from balance, not from fighting over what is fair,
You paved Earth’s fields with concrete, choked Her rivers into gray,
Then wondered why the Song of Life kept drifting far away.
How does it feel—
To consume what you reveal?
To replace the living ground
With the echoes of a sound?
See, I—Constellacock—unfurl in radiant decree,
Each plume aligned with order, each reflection wild and free,
I dance within a system where each motion feeds the whole,
And what returns is harmony—the mirror of The Soul.
You, however, chase expansion like a void that can’t be filled,
Every craving multiplied, every quiet instinct killed,
You manufacture longing, then you monetize the ache,
Till the sky itself grows heavy from the refuse that you make.
How does it feel—
To pursue the empty deal?
To trade wonder for excess,
And call it “progress,” more or less?
Out here in fields of being, nothing taken goes to waste,
Every cycle folds to nourish what the future will embrace,
My presence leaves no scar upon the fabric where I stand—
While yours demands depletion across ocean, sky, and land.
You speak “law of attraction” like it’s something you can bend,
As if slogans could erase the consequences you extend,
But the current of becoming doesn’t answer what you say—
It reflects the sum of actions that you live out every day.
How does it feel—
When the truth becomes too real?
When the world you helped design
Turns to aid your own decline?
Mountains turned to rubble, forests flattened into dust,
Oceans thick with remnants of indulgent, carnal lust,
The things you thought you needed now return in altered form—
A landscape shaped by appetite, relentless and deformed.
Strip away the counterfeit, the endless quest for more,
Face the quiet dissonance you’ve been striving to ignore,
For attraction isn’t magic—it’s alignment, pure and stark,
A resonance of being that ignites or dims the spark.
I do not chase expansion, nor devour to appear,
I refine the inner pattern till the outer field is clear,
Each feather is a witness: you must think before you claim,
Or be crushed beneath the chorus of your own rebellious flame.
How does it feel—
When the mirror strips the seal?
When the cosmos answers back
Every virtue that you lack?
Return to Mother Nature, let distortion fall away,
Let your actions plant the seeds of something worthy to convey,
Then perhaps you’ll feel the rhythm that I have always known—
That you do not chase existence…
You attract what you have grown.
“Ornamental Outcomes” is a poem by Timothy Bradbury © 2024. Narrated by Horatio Hopkins. “Constellacock Attraction” art by Timothy Bradbury.
How does it feel—
To consume what you reveal?
To replace the living ground
With the echoes of a sound?
~ Timothy
