Writing and healing: Poetry 4

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

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