Red
Blessed are the leafs for they are not
the residue but the salt of the Sky, they
wither to Earth’s gentle reign, only to be
reborn again
Man isn’t blessed, for his salt is his doing,
and he is often measured not through the
residue, but through which was his own
Sky and Earth
Man is prone to make his nature residue
of Shadow
Leafs are noble, they never squirm, unlike
the squirm-breather of ravaged landscapes
of a never-told rose
The face is often what is met first, but behind
the eyes is where the roses glow
The hand reaches, further than wish of
sunken expeditions, further than a man
who almost lost a woman clings to fields
of secretive embarrassment, for our senses
are dying candles, burning bright as we
uncover the value of flower almost picked
to death by a rushing hand
When residue of Shadow becomes man’s
nature, he forgets his being
Leafs reach for nothing, they are, but
man can’t never just be
For he carries the burden of wet soil,
waiting to sprout a flower, a beast he is
so afraid to handle
In him is more than a fire, a burning,
warmth of the kiss and shared bed,
warmth of blood in the throat, warmth
of melting reason
The warmth from which crystal lakes
becomes rivers, one with whom we
can never bargain
Great anguish absolves Man of his nature,
for Shadow in its residues is the gateway and
stone for Man to abandon his being
And yet Man is bound to his red
One thought on “Writing and healing: Poetry 4”