Who is she, wandering amongst the thorns,
Growing old, gifting flesh to desolate time?
She knows even private memory
Will be washed by floods and death.
Wild thorns trees, brambles,
Twisting sticker vines,
Sweet scented with the
Pain of lost wishes are overgrown
With barbed memories, preferred
Forgotten. Awareness and remembering
Are pricked by blooded heart gifts,
Pooling in the forest floor hollows.
Drifts of dreams, forest litter,
Almost forgotten promises, collected loss,
Waits in piles of pain, hills of sorrow.
Curling growth fills, unaware, the cracks
And broken hollow places in storm
Damaged hearts worn by work and care.
Thunder warning rumbles
Through tree tops, through
Whispered greedy wishes and
Songs of forgotten loves.
Ravines and streams and words and thoughts
Are becoming impenetrable with
The gathering thorny anguish.
The source springs of hope are dammed
With dead fall sacrifice and thrown away
Blessings, talents, gifts, the
Unrecognized offerings of love.
Checked by screams and wailing music,
Until a threshold overflowing
With tears and spring rain, thawed
Memory, becomes a drumming pulse beating
Against the heaped and mounded suffering.
Foolishly ignored, the overwhelming
Floods of grief shall submerge the
Hopeless wasting chaos tangled wanting.
Waves of mud and regret and sorrow shall inundate,
In rivers of history and flooded eons,
The tick tock schools and factory farms,
Chemical meat, irrigated with disciplined loss,
Fertilized with composted hearts and souls
Worked with waste and hurt and war,
Foods for deadened lost minds,
Dressed in consumer fiction,
Until flooding waters bury it all.
Buried by the muddy waters of time;
Fear, hubris, avarice, neglect,
Piles of spent hopes, all shall be swept away
In eons of keening ancient grief.
Dikes of indifference are no protection
From the surging flood, the swirling
Spiraling time carrying away the
Drifts of discarded dreams and
The mud mounded suffering.
Who is she wandering amongst the thorns,
Growing old, gifting flesh to desolate time?
She knows even private memory
Will be washed in murky history.
Again the source springs of hope will be
Stopped with drifts of dead dreams, and
Again the anguish will build until the
Threshold is reached and the breakout
Flooded rivers of grief and regret wash it all away.
Bear … 04.16.2014
ⓒ Bearspawprint