The Word

Waiting to be revealed from
beneath half-forgotten fantasies;
tangled in intriguing materiality
politics and injustice
violence and mayhem.

The inner reality cries out -
yet in my stubborn resolve
to remain rooted,
I ignore the pleadings
until they soften
like a child left weeping in dark.

I tally all that
was relinquished or lost -
nature’s unrestrained
and capricious world hardened;
its structure crumbling.
The end rushing on.

Though the path ahead
is less worn - obscured by
layer upon layer of civilized scorn,
I know the way back
to the garden.


© 2004 Melissa Songer