Thought & Memory
On what does the bud dwell,
when nature's ambition and anticipation drive it to bloom?
Is it hope and desire?
The future filled with the flowers radiance?
Causality restricts this purity to a few.
A bud of possibility is met with harsh fortune.
Cut from it's fair simplicity by a heavy chord and light.
A moment lasts forever,
the last state of peace and innocence
frozen internally by the severing.
An impossible expectation forces outward growth,
burning the future, a flash of maturity.
The bloom is carried off by the wind.
It is stunning in its contrast.
Blue ice and a hearth's fire,
falls out of motion into obscurity.
It settles in the void, dark and in torment.
The shadow grows accusative,
it mocks the flower, it hates the flower,
it eats the flower, it is the flower.
Unable to move the beauty is swallowed by blackness,
the pricks grow deeper, the piercing more true.
The shadow gains its sacrifice,
the flock of crows grow.
The torture is exquisite,
the shadow knows the flower's desire.
Such perfect knowledge.
Each cut, slow and deliberate.
Being consumed gives her purpose.
The flower remains silent during the pain,
her frozen beginning, beaten and cut.
This is what she deserves.
A broken thing, lost from truth.
She loves the agony, she believes the lie.
The Norns grant chance,
the flower rejects it,
nourishment would grant pain and power.
Pain to the flower, power to the shadow.
The flower is broken, it is not worth redemption,
it forgets causality is its master.
A distant sound enters her consciousness,
as a dream it begins a gentle rhythm,
slowly the ripples grow
and fill her mind enough to wake.
The sound of hooves takes her to hope
The scythe swings at her heart,
the black cloud is thickened,
as the herd of wild horses near.
Fear brings hate upon her,
it builds as a pillar of the universe
thrown to crush her heart.
She watches the spear get closer
acceptance and release is all she desires.
She gives into causality, expecting to die.
The rush of hooves is deafening,
distracting her from subjugation
The sound is a flood that carries her away,
she fights the water, hitting, scratching, biting, hating.
She expects another hole and renewed torture,
she resents her freedom and saviour.
She cannot fight the water, causality is her master.
The torrent leaves her on the well's edge
as it drains into the underworld.
In the well, the water's surface is still and clear.
A world inverted in its reflection.
She sees herself for the first time.
Shocked by the contrast of her fairness
and the cataclysm within,
she looks away, but she saw.
The reflection beckons her attention,
memories of the void pierce, once more.
Thoughts of the world in the reflection
pull at her mind. She looks and sees.
The reflection looks back,
it's a play of intention.
Memories of the future,
thoughts of possibility,
doubts of her worth,
fear at the opportunity.
The reflection accepts her
and ponders her scars,
she stares into hope as the day fades.
Sunset closes the portal
she becomes alone again.
The black returns, she feels at home again.
The crows cry out as they find their sacrifice
alone on the well's edge.
She looks to the water pleading for the opening
she sees nothing but starlight
she feels nothing but cold.
The flock nears and she is humiliated by her hope.
Day breaks and the gateway appears,
the menace is banished by the sun;
the reflection is concerned about her.
It desires to embrace her pain and absorb her tears.
Another day of reflection,
she is afraid of time.
The underworld lives beneath the surface,
the reflection, impossibly thin.
She knows the crows near by the day.
Too afraid to stay,
the harshness of fate's memory
lies about tomorrow,
thoughts and any happiness
met equally by sorrow.
There is no choice,
she knows the payment is due,
as the arrow reaches its target.
Will a gust of wind
sail her into hell?
Will her striking beauty be destroyed by a claw?
Will she jump through the portal?
The angst of the moment is delicious,
a lion watches her; hungry.
He admires the universe
although causality has scarred him.
Beauty is a paradox, he sees through her projected terror.
Memories of his awakening flash as he observes
her transcendence, it inspires self thought.
Never change, little flower.
Remain in your torment,
the cutting winds of self hate
carved you into perfection,
pain has revealed your form,
see it in your reflection.
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