Hermetical Forerunning of Life

Heat...everywhere. Blinding heat, raging and rolling from every angle. Heat within the stars has no comparison to the heat
against my every side, scorching my every branch and leaf and bud.

Oh my friends, my lovers, my family - how they fell a midst the flames and fire - dark billowing smoke from the slowly perishing
young; slow gray smoke out of the fallen old. Why did you go - here I stand alone, the single oak a midst the graves of children
and friends.

Lo, even the critters, the furry friends who used to run amok through my feet of branches, burrowed and found shelter under my skin - where too have you gone? Away, you have, away from me - a hermit standing tall but singed, beaten and battered against
the storm of winds and flame.

No longer do I hear the songs of the breeze through family's hair - no longer the soft trill of the 'jays and the hovering drum beats of the hummingbirds - now just silence, endless echoes of nothingness. No home left to protect against stray storm or
lightning strike; here I stand, a monument to what once was.

Even now, laid deep beneath the smoke and ash, deeper still beneath my roots, I can feel it. The soft hum of you - my kin. I hear your soft earthly echo, no longer in screams and cries of pain but now; now in hymns of rebirth, now in love songs of the
spring.

I hear your once thought dead seedlings emerge from the dark soot emptiness. I hear the long-out calls of the 'jays. I hear you returning to me, returning home,
returning to where you belong.

No longer am I a hermit, a solitary monument to what was and will never be, a lonely reminder of past destruction; now,
now I am forerunner -
with my buds and fruit; they shall return anew and grown. Because of me, kin and friends shall return - the songs of the past are now the songs of the future; the drumming of the hummingbird, the trill of the 'jays and their young, the soft scratching from within as new small residents take up shelter within me.

Now, there shall be life - born beating back against the oppression of flames and fiery tyranny. Now there shall be life - singing hymns of past and future alike. Now there shall be life - so that when I too pass, others will take my place a midst the forest of songs and memories, the forest of what was and will be -

the forest of life.

Her

It's not true,
at least not partially in the sense of your definition of joyless truth -
while I did find fantasy and beauty written in her skin,
I never found this evilness within our love that you call sin.

It wasn't her cheeks or her lips that stopped me from believing,
it was swimming amongst the dreams and stars and Naiads in her eyes -
it made me awake from a hell I was tired of carrying in my pockets -

I felt release, sweet blissful freedom within her arms
as our demons mingled within our hearts -
neither of us loving our own,
but raising our minds in anarchy
for the other's soul.

As teeth graze lips,
as hair is brushed by fingertips,
as eyes are closed tight,
my soul melds with yours;

as I feel your words still warm from your lips,
as you curl into my tender palms,
as we embrace into one life,
our beings are born abreath with new purpose;

to reach a new level of addiction -
to the other's taste, smile, and laugh,
to live more fully within each other's day and night,
to love together;
to let our demons thrive in peace,
to breathe each day in universal harmony,
to enjoy our silence and our mirth,
to just be.

Ad Consolatio Herbam

Take this sprig of fresh grass, this scepter of nature's creation, this abundant bed from which man will lay in at the end.

This lone blade, this wee-whistle calling all fairies and pixies abound.

This grasslet, this green tuft of Gaea's hair that we caress and massage - giving salon makeovers with push to industrial clippers when Gaea needs a new look for the new season.

Take this single stalk of grass, hold and admire the virescent pastoral being in your hands. The smell lingers - softly, hung with patience and unaged grace.

Notice the viridescent color slowly with time, for every second and moment of man becomes a last breath, a last aeon for this single inhabitant of its homely meadow-land veld.

"Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'" - The Talmud