Hollow reverberations adrift in a shallow, dead, salty brine of a lake,
Sucking the life from the soil, bursting its breath, a moon beam,
Floating away on a limb of a once proud coniferous, asphyxiated,
Ripples from an unknown origin changing the very direction of its path,
Incurable and nearly meaningless, these patterns interrupt a primal striving,
A hope of a kind, disrupted and reconfigured, re-contextualized, reiterated,
Bled from the very being that birthed it forth and raised it up,
Quartered and drawn forth for the sake of something misunderstood.
To put this out is to never go back,
Reaching into a known snare to feel again,
Familiar and comforting yet still a vice,
Reviving and reconstructing years of work,
Only to be done again and again and again.
No comments:
Post a Comment