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Winter Solstice.

Our roots are bloody with a-culling,
we ran wild through our trees,
our hearts are wicked and waning
under the waxing moon plucking feed.

My ancient bones are an-aching,
my mind is dead within,
the youth has all but left me
love pumping just for kin.

We sit amongst our brothers,
we tell these tales of old,
we hold notes of songs a-plenty
as we pass a cup of gold.

My faith is for creatures
forbidden from their land,
all my dreams my species burn out
and they leave it hand in hand.

We can dress it up in silver,
we can fail to see the truth,
we can paint ourselves in elders
rewritten days of all their youth.

Written by ImperfectedStone

(The Gardener)

Published 21st Dec 2018

#animals #humankind #nature #winter

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Re. Winter Solstice.

Anonymous

21st Dec 2018 11:37am

The rhythm in this is relentless marching forward but it's subtle, like losing ground in a fight an inch at a time. There is so much raw honesty in this that it's hard to not look away from, and at the same time it's almost nihilistic in a similar way to some of the things I've read on serial killers, an apathy even a hint of loathing toward humanity, I can really relate to it, and at the same time it makes me shudder.

ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)

21st Dec 2018 2:54pm

It was definitely a folk song in my aching head. Thank you for placing words here. I certainly have been known to be fatalistic and perhaps, some might say, a danger to my species in my time.