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HOLLOWED STUMP, LEFT FOR THE DUMP
#IdentityShifts
Sometimes when you have started over so many damn times that your life feels like "Groundhog Day"; heart shattered & scattered and mind wasting landfill after final dump , you just want to be able to lay roots and grow instead of being this evacuated; "The Giving Tree that is chopped down, used, burnt, or left behind as a stump....
The bright, ball of fire in the sky slowly scalding my once shaded by my umbrella of leaves ( or beautiful flowers if I dare think so positively..) The LONELINESS & lostness feels as if to slowly, torturously swirl around inside my bark....
My age rings dizzily circling the wood wagon endlessly solocycloning seemingly destined to merely waste away into the rot that will inevitably be destined to rot like the sinkhole my freighbor's™ decapitated acorn beast disintegrated into.
Deadwood!
The decay of my soils are meant to produce an enriched soil to grow, nurture and nourish the garden my son is meant to carry on...reaching high the infant branches, vines, seeds planted to flourish and bloom anew!
How can my necrotizing bits be reincarnated through the photosynthesis generated in my sapling with the slivers sparsed to nothing by all the villains of my heart and mind and what they did do?
How do I climb back above the sun kissed canopy when I was the only red to weather the time passed?
Keeping the air the other trees did exhaust until all left within my limbs is the poison of unexpelled, long lost peaceful breath that all the rested wood did not outlast!
With none left standing near as I crashed repetitively to Earth, cut after cut, timber after timber,
Hunted, sawed, plowed, plained, carved, pecked, hacked, and knocked down too many times for even so much as a toothpick to be produced from my remains or properly be remembered.
What magical rain must precipitate upon my fed upon soul to reroot from mine mind coils burnt down and ashen?
How will some miraculous spirit of nature slip inside the contaminated soils of tainted, bled dry bowels of passion?
How will the wrecked shields of my condemned owl's nest keep safe the wings of my sprout?
Will the solid quality of my woodwinds give flight to my baby eagle for the knots in my trunk, I fear, have completely unravelled and from the extinquished flame and strength to fight for which I am nothing without
© aMUSEmommy2SHEalwaysLOVEStrueBLUE
Sometimes when you have started over so many damn times that your life feels like "Groundhog Day"; heart shattered & scattered and mind wasting landfill after final dump , you just want to be able to lay roots and grow instead of being this evacuated; "The Giving Tree that is chopped down, used, burnt, or left behind as a stump....
The bright, ball of fire in the sky slowly scalding my once shaded by my umbrella of leaves ( or beautiful flowers if I dare think so positively..) The LONELINESS & lostness feels as if to slowly, torturously swirl around inside my bark....
My age rings dizzily circling the wood wagon endlessly solocycloning seemingly destined to merely waste away into the rot that will inevitably be destined to rot like the sinkhole my freighbor's™ decapitated acorn beast disintegrated into.
Deadwood!
The decay of my soils are meant to produce an enriched soil to grow, nurture and nourish the garden my son is meant to carry on...reaching high the infant branches, vines, seeds planted to flourish and bloom anew!
How can my necrotizing bits be reincarnated through the photosynthesis generated in my sapling with the slivers sparsed to nothing by all the villains of my heart and mind and what they did do?
How do I climb back above the sun kissed canopy when I was the only red to weather the time passed?
Keeping the air the other trees did exhaust until all left within my limbs is the poison of unexpelled, long lost peaceful breath that all the rested wood did not outlast!
With none left standing near as I crashed repetitively to Earth, cut after cut, timber after timber,
Hunted, sawed, plowed, plained, carved, pecked, hacked, and knocked down too many times for even so much as a toothpick to be produced from my remains or properly be remembered.
What magical rain must precipitate upon my fed upon soul to reroot from mine mind coils burnt down and ashen?
How will some miraculous spirit of nature slip inside the contaminated soils of tainted, bled dry bowels of passion?
How will the wrecked shields of my condemned owl's nest keep safe the wings of my sprout?
Will the solid quality of my woodwinds give flight to my baby eagle for the knots in my trunk, I fear, have completely unravelled and from the extinquished flame and strength to fight for which I am nothing without
© aMUSEmommy2SHEalwaysLOVEStrueBLUE
