The Dying

In the deepest cresses,

of your lavish body,

there is warmth and,

motherhood.

In the soft caresses,

you bestow your body,

there is love like

none I've known.

In the dents and boulders,

that make up your body,

there is life and,

only good.

But on trembling shoulders,

there's a weighing burden,

when you reap what

man has sown.

You are dying, mother,

your skin is landscape,

that is withering,

with decay.

With war and famine,

with hate and murder,

you grow weaker

every day.

Forgive us, mother,

we cannot see how,

you are poisened

at your core.

We cannot win,

this fight will end us,

but you shall burst to life

once more.

In the cooling winds,

you will mend your breaks,

your cracks, your

crevices.

In the pooling floods,

you will drink away,

the thirst of decades

waste.

In the shaded spots,

you will stretch yourself,

and find that

you're appeased.

For the budding life,

shall bring you hope,

despite all that

you've faced.

In the deepest cresses,

of your lavish body,

there is warmth and

motherhood.

What motherly love,

you had bestowed,

if man had

understood.

My Picture Challenge Response

She said that it helped her believe in a future filled with promise, a future that would be the opposite of our reality, that there would be a time when desperation and despair had been obliterated and harmony was bound to encapsulate us all. She said that she had seen tall buildings - just like those depicted on the mural pieces she was so fond of collecting - and us, smiling.

It was small, this future, small enough to fit in my palm, but it was heavy and carried a weight to it that felt almost like how I imagined truth must feel, if you were ever enclined to carry it. It was a perfect sphere of silver, and it held promises of harmony within it. She said.

I looked at it and I saw those buildings burning; I saw us fleeing from yet another broken dream, and how it would leave us disillusioned and empty. There would be neither desperation nor despair, but harmony would come in the obliteration of hope, where we would feel nothing anymore because the processing of emotion had become too unbearable.

I told her none of this when she offered me her one possession, reaching it out to me with a hand stained with the blood of battle. She looked too encouraging, as though she relied too much on it to salvage what little was left of our brethren, for me to shatter the peace of her last few moments. Her breath was failing her.

I didn't cry.

Now, I carry our future like a burden near my heart, in the breast pocket of my shirt, as we walk through the djungles that have grown over the abandoned homes of what was once thriving communities. And the bodies of the dead hide beneath the vines, beneath the roots and thickets. I try not to trample them, but sometimes... Sometimes I wonder if, perhaps, they're everywhere, impossible to avoid.

There are five in our group left. Danya and Lethaniel were taken by the darkness fifty days ago. Margo, Gennie and Brohan died fighting the Impostors. We who are still standing will head for those tall buildings; that seems to have been our goal from the moment we formed a circle for the first time. Even if we didn't know it then. And when we reach them I will see whose predictions were correct, but I know that whether we dance for joy or slip into lethargy matters little at this point - what we all wish for is rest, and that we shall have, either way.

Our future seems happy to greet us: everyday the sphere glows brighter.

Not much further now.

Beautiful Irony

I had the most sublime moment the other day, watching a scene take place right outside my kitchen window, serving as a brilliant example of how truly ironic nature can be.

The cushions of our lawn-chairs have been partially covered by a cut-up piece of blanket, because the cats shed and their furr cover the niceness of our cushions otherwise, and upon one of the blankets was a little sparrow, jumping about, collecting furr in her beak to use as lining for her nest. I found this absolutely marvellous. Her chicks will hatch into a nest lined with the furr of one of the more serious predators they're bound to encounter, once they're airborne. If that isn't irony at its most beautiful, then I don't know what is.

:)

x's
Annie.