Monday, September 26, 2016

Queen of Seasons - poem

(As Above, So Below - photograph by Kimberly B. Richardson)

Time is inevitable.
Of course, our minds are no longer
working in accordance to the rest of the body.
We think, therefore, we can not
possibly imagine what degree of damage
has been dealt to our flesh sins,
corrupted and rusted,
and yet we still move forward
in some futile attempt
to collect what was once lost,
mittens buried deep in snow
left by a child who was too cold to 
 handle the responsibilities. Violets,
somehow, are saved from cruel hearts
that forget the truth that they are human.
Flowers, rare and delicate, made into a crown
to bless the queen of seasons
while she walks the trails, her feet
made of morning dew and baby’s breath.
Time, spent in frugal measures,
can be seen as primal and short lived.
Understand, then, that this must be
a religious experience, one to surpass the
once popular notion that sin would
forever control us. And yet, and yet,
eyes still seek out something
greater, to encompass the right,
split down middle, to evolve in
our fashion and become more than human,
more than machine. Puritanical to replace
the lustful, surprising even our own selves
to die withered on a cross
created by steel and rusted nails -
This is the gift we have
all agreed to accept with such frowns on our faces.
No, it is no longer here, our words, sins,
deeds, creatures created strictly
from the mind, of desires reached
an faintly grasped.
Do we have a prophet, now, living among
us, ready to speak for us all?
Is She in great pain that only She created
for Her words will not make any sense
if otherwise? We have been led to
believe that She must suffer before
we will take Her words as truth.
She used to be our queen of seasons
until Her followers killed everything,
leaving the land barren and sick. Her crown
was replaced with screams,
Her dress tattered greys and blacks
and still we want more, raping Her mind
to search for sweet and bloody secrets
She holds from us. Religion is our saviour

and She is its mother.

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