- Joined
- May 3, 2009
- Messages
- 7,190
Link to original post: [drupal=2965]In the Rain[/drupal]
I leave my prison, and exist on the soft grass. I see the silvered roots of the oak, and the veil of the rain. All is quiet, for the people fear the tears. I walk to the earth, and step into its heart.
All is quiet.
I listen to the rain knocking the trees, the leaves, but to each other, it is a caress. That is how it should be. I bask in the air filled with the cadence. The grass has dew, its colors dulled yet arith. I stop walking, because my shoes roar against the earth, and it is not natural. My feet escape their cells and love the cool dirt.
Not an animal is to be heard, but the elms and the aspen are better. Their silent breathing reaches my ears, and blinded gaze meets mine. The mist snakes and weaves between the lichened vines hanging from the arms. Their leaves are fallen upon all, matted and wet, first a coat for the children, and now for the mother. My eyes are bleary from the grace, and I savor it.
Behind a turn on the path off the beaten, the elfwoods stand. Their skin is ribbed, smooth, silver. Moss stains them, and accentuates their solemnity. The hay is damp upon the mud, and no children frolic there. I come upon a lone, undulated stump, and meet its being, cruelly severed, felled by the chill, steel hands of man. My cover becomes a mountain, my cheeks valleys, and my eyes springs, and I hope my river might give respite to the fallen soul.
I slip upon the clay on the stones, and drift onto the bank. An airy lilt escapes me from the unseekable depths of my self, like the winds hail from unknown corners, and becomes one with the stream's. It rushes over the bed, its laughter helped by the stones. It overflows, and the rain yet strings to the earth. I die in the music of the arbor and stream, the flutes, voids, and strings emanating.
A foul stomach shatters and tears this, and I seethe in calm rage at its intrusion. I have it, and it disappears, and the rain falls thicker, praising me and embracing me. The mother below sings, and the children about hum, and all is well again.
I create my words upon the earth, and still remember them, for how can one forget that which he has created, and lies in his home?
I rise, soaked with praise, bathed with flesh, and return to the fallen one. Slime mold and mushrooms have already sprouted and bloomed upon his ribs, but it is well, for that is how it should be. And I baptise the mold anew, for the mushroom is good, but it has been wronged, and how can something so arith be known so garishly? And it thanks me, for it knows that at least with me it will be arith, as will its children, and the children of its children.
I reach the edge of the heart, and falter.
--
My parents yell, for they are angered over the trivial fact that "grime" covers me, and I am wet, and I lack my shoes, but it is in vain, for they chastise an empty shell. And that shell exists in the prison, only complete with the Earth, for my self remains in the Rain.
I leave my prison, and exist on the soft grass. I see the silvered roots of the oak, and the veil of the rain. All is quiet, for the people fear the tears. I walk to the earth, and step into its heart.
All is quiet.
I listen to the rain knocking the trees, the leaves, but to each other, it is a caress. That is how it should be. I bask in the air filled with the cadence. The grass has dew, its colors dulled yet arith. I stop walking, because my shoes roar against the earth, and it is not natural. My feet escape their cells and love the cool dirt.
Not an animal is to be heard, but the elms and the aspen are better. Their silent breathing reaches my ears, and blinded gaze meets mine. The mist snakes and weaves between the lichened vines hanging from the arms. Their leaves are fallen upon all, matted and wet, first a coat for the children, and now for the mother. My eyes are bleary from the grace, and I savor it.
Behind a turn on the path off the beaten, the elfwoods stand. Their skin is ribbed, smooth, silver. Moss stains them, and accentuates their solemnity. The hay is damp upon the mud, and no children frolic there. I come upon a lone, undulated stump, and meet its being, cruelly severed, felled by the chill, steel hands of man. My cover becomes a mountain, my cheeks valleys, and my eyes springs, and I hope my river might give respite to the fallen soul.
I slip upon the clay on the stones, and drift onto the bank. An airy lilt escapes me from the unseekable depths of my self, like the winds hail from unknown corners, and becomes one with the stream's. It rushes over the bed, its laughter helped by the stones. It overflows, and the rain yet strings to the earth. I die in the music of the arbor and stream, the flutes, voids, and strings emanating.
A foul stomach shatters and tears this, and I seethe in calm rage at its intrusion. I have it, and it disappears, and the rain falls thicker, praising me and embracing me. The mother below sings, and the children about hum, and all is well again.
I create my words upon the earth, and still remember them, for how can one forget that which he has created, and lies in his home?
I rise, soaked with praise, bathed with flesh, and return to the fallen one. Slime mold and mushrooms have already sprouted and bloomed upon his ribs, but it is well, for that is how it should be. And I baptise the mold anew, for the mushroom is good, but it has been wronged, and how can something so arith be known so garishly? And it thanks me, for it knows that at least with me it will be arith, as will its children, and the children of its children.
I reach the edge of the heart, and falter.
--
My parents yell, for they are angered over the trivial fact that "grime" covers me, and I am wet, and I lack my shoes, but it is in vain, for they chastise an empty shell. And that shell exists in the prison, only complete with the Earth, for my self remains in the Rain.
