Sunday, February 23, 2014


Orignal Watercolor Work by ZenMama
The trees are red and foreboding.
Stripped of their clothing,
exposed and unable to hide.

The river runs narrow.
A place to dream and clench
strength from the dirt
until your hands are hurt
and the labor lays your body down
as one, a fetter to the earth.

One breath held too tight,
Or released with a whisper blow
Downstream runs down
into the dark spiral all around
which comforts you only
in your fears as a home you know.

The sound of going under again and on again
until possible the last time before you sleep
When you give up the brawl and  the clash
And realize you must fall, over the fall,
waterfall, jagged and sharp, and splash
into waters still and painfully deep.

There are more trees laid red and bare,
compelled to grow without their voice
floating in a haze of washed out violet light.
Nothing to hold them to make them right,
without their sound, they can take to the night,
beyond the hazy violet light,
and fly above the wintery falls and blustery noise
of the one who failed to give them air.

Their colors change as elegant, brilliant glare
the God, the Mother, a higher power and holy son.
The place of golden orange I knew was there
I wished for it upon thousands of ones
where lovely trees who have come undone
can transcend into rapture without compare
and multiply limbs and leaves and color to share,
never again to be red, exposed and bare.

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