raven sayer / d7 / (fin)
Oct 15, 2017 0:17:59 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Oct 15, 2017 0:17:59 GMT -5
Raven Sayer
━ and he cried with a loud voice:
Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees.
(Revelation)
The trees had been my castles, flourishing harmoniously with my height and somewhere along the way, I stopped at five feet’ twelve whilst they erupted into dark spreads.
I remember becoming green from envy and questioning, rather philosophically for a boy of ten, the basic cobblestones of mother nature. It sparked childish fury, to be left as a stump whereas the castles rebranded themselves in terms of fresh buds and new twigs.
I thought of it as a curse.
And, in a way, it was.
If only I were to have grown along with them, my skin would’ve turned resilient now, my heart perfectly held within overlapping layers of bark and sap and my legs rooted to one patch of land for all of eternity. I wished I didn’t have to meander around as much.
The trees would change every year, yellow leaves plucked by wind and tender buds substituting their place of absence.
My features changed in sync with the leaves and seasons. Last days of summer, my face wasn’t littered with squares of acne—puberty, mother said—and I didn’t have the scar which shows brightly on my left hand.
My first winter, I dreaded neither strolls nor the very act of walking. Cradled in the cage of my mother, wrapped in serenity as if I were near a lake hidden deep within mountains.
I’d never seen a lake before but I always thought of them to be perfect places, a private water body landlocked to a place, touching with the packed earth below.
Maybe, one day,
I’ll go dousing in one.
The trees threshed in full-grown thickness all decades long, but I wasn’t.
A shack that survives on two loafs of bread a day and has to devise strategies stronger than the framework of outlines they use in wars in order to get through winters, I wander in an inchoate existence similar to the buds in spring but, unlike them, mine rarely flourishes into bloom.
The only perfect places in my room are the windows.
I would steal a cigarette from father, crack open a pane, relish the greenery outside and choke on the clots of nicotine in my lungs.
They say I’m an inept smoker because I can’t kiss out rings of smoke into the air. But, I’ve never cared, my smolders are for the trees to breathe in.
The trees are proud, beautiful creatures with a pelt of wood and stems like talons.
They wear robin nests are their crowns. They refuse to fall. They stay in their timber skeletons like knights in armors. But, they’re as graceful as a ballerina too. They bow to the wind, they embolden life and they’re the greens in the world’s palette.
They’re me and I’m they.
I’m a royal, my body’s a temple of my own religion.
I reign in justice, I respect honor but I won’t be lenient when it comes to atrocities. I’ll offer sanctuary to those in need, but bring wildfires to the ones who wrong me.
The trees are empathetic, the heart rings around their stems indicate so.
They’re soft, nature’s canopies meant to protect us and I mimic the said aspect of theirs. The oldest child of a family of five, I’m their tree.
My leaves are widespread and wild, meant to veil others. My trunk is formidable and I don’t fall, destined to stand on my two feet.
Sometimes, my sister would climb up my back and she’d reference my board shoulders as branches. I would grin up at her, like a tree would do to the sun, moon and the stars above.
She’s the sun, moon and the stars, dangling in my dusking skies.
There’s no deed I wouldn’t sacrifice for her innocence of mind.
The trees are like the phasing moons, constantly shifting their layers, colossal transitions from full bloom to dead oaks.
Mother says I’m not stable. My tears turn to laughter, and my declarations of love turn to profanity in the spur of a moment. They give me stolen pills and they tell me it’s for my own good.
But, I feel like a better man in the sunlight, basking in the afterglow of the evening sky. I don’t need these blue pills, so I watch them plummet down the drain.
I keep telling myself, humming a mantra: I don’t need the pills, I don’t need the pills, I don’t need the pills ...
I don’t ….
The trees are callous to the initials craved into their flesh.
Everyone evades Father’s path whenever he crawls back into the house—normally it’s the witching hours—but he’s stumbled into me a couple or more times.
I have the pink bruises, littered on my backbone and beaten into my skin, to corroborate it. The stitches in my head seem to sting whenever I see his blotched face.
But, the trees don’t rage war on the mushrooms because, even though they raid their supplements, mushrooms understand the needs of a tree.
The trees anticipate for rainfall.
I’ve written scarlet letters, pages and pages in a yellowed book, about the seas, about grandiose jungles, about faraway deserts, about savannahs, about snowcapped mountains.
There’ll come soft rain when the time’s right but my fantasies are nothing but smoke, intangible and misted.
I’ll perish from old age, or a fall here. If I’m fortunate, I’ll be herded into the Games like a sheep meant for slaughter.
One way or another, my destiny’s written in the stars.
The trees don’t stop growing.
They flourish, they evolve, they rise.
I’m not at my zenith, there’re much more tragedies to overcome and it doesn’t consist of my father’s drunken fury, my mother’s tendency to covet things, my sister’s loss of innocence—I know the time will dawn when it’s time.
And, before it does, I need to bring my buds into bloom and uncurl my leaves into a spread.
The trees don’t die, but it’s effortless for an axe to bring their ultimate downfall.
What’s going to be my axe?
Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees.
(Revelation)
The trees had been my castles, flourishing harmoniously with my height and somewhere along the way, I stopped at five feet’ twelve whilst they erupted into dark spreads.
I remember becoming green from envy and questioning, rather philosophically for a boy of ten, the basic cobblestones of mother nature. It sparked childish fury, to be left as a stump whereas the castles rebranded themselves in terms of fresh buds and new twigs.
I thought of it as a curse.
And, in a way, it was.
If only I were to have grown along with them, my skin would’ve turned resilient now, my heart perfectly held within overlapping layers of bark and sap and my legs rooted to one patch of land for all of eternity. I wished I didn’t have to meander around as much.
The trees would change every year, yellow leaves plucked by wind and tender buds substituting their place of absence.
My features changed in sync with the leaves and seasons. Last days of summer, my face wasn’t littered with squares of acne—puberty, mother said—and I didn’t have the scar which shows brightly on my left hand.
My first winter, I dreaded neither strolls nor the very act of walking. Cradled in the cage of my mother, wrapped in serenity as if I were near a lake hidden deep within mountains.
I’d never seen a lake before but I always thought of them to be perfect places, a private water body landlocked to a place, touching with the packed earth below.
Maybe, one day,
I’ll go dousing in one.
The trees threshed in full-grown thickness all decades long, but I wasn’t.
A shack that survives on two loafs of bread a day and has to devise strategies stronger than the framework of outlines they use in wars in order to get through winters, I wander in an inchoate existence similar to the buds in spring but, unlike them, mine rarely flourishes into bloom.
The only perfect places in my room are the windows.
I would steal a cigarette from father, crack open a pane, relish the greenery outside and choke on the clots of nicotine in my lungs.
They say I’m an inept smoker because I can’t kiss out rings of smoke into the air. But, I’ve never cared, my smolders are for the trees to breathe in.
The trees are proud, beautiful creatures with a pelt of wood and stems like talons.
They wear robin nests are their crowns. They refuse to fall. They stay in their timber skeletons like knights in armors. But, they’re as graceful as a ballerina too. They bow to the wind, they embolden life and they’re the greens in the world’s palette.
They’re me and I’m they.
I’m a royal, my body’s a temple of my own religion.
I reign in justice, I respect honor but I won’t be lenient when it comes to atrocities. I’ll offer sanctuary to those in need, but bring wildfires to the ones who wrong me.
The trees are empathetic, the heart rings around their stems indicate so.
They’re soft, nature’s canopies meant to protect us and I mimic the said aspect of theirs. The oldest child of a family of five, I’m their tree.
My leaves are widespread and wild, meant to veil others. My trunk is formidable and I don’t fall, destined to stand on my two feet.
Sometimes, my sister would climb up my back and she’d reference my board shoulders as branches. I would grin up at her, like a tree would do to the sun, moon and the stars above.
She’s the sun, moon and the stars, dangling in my dusking skies.
There’s no deed I wouldn’t sacrifice for her innocence of mind.
The trees are like the phasing moons, constantly shifting their layers, colossal transitions from full bloom to dead oaks.
Mother says I’m not stable. My tears turn to laughter, and my declarations of love turn to profanity in the spur of a moment. They give me stolen pills and they tell me it’s for my own good.
But, I feel like a better man in the sunlight, basking in the afterglow of the evening sky. I don’t need these blue pills, so I watch them plummet down the drain.
I keep telling myself, humming a mantra: I don’t need the pills, I don’t need the pills, I don’t need the pills ...
I don’t ….
The trees are callous to the initials craved into their flesh.
Everyone evades Father’s path whenever he crawls back into the house—normally it’s the witching hours—but he’s stumbled into me a couple or more times.
I have the pink bruises, littered on my backbone and beaten into my skin, to corroborate it. The stitches in my head seem to sting whenever I see his blotched face.
But, the trees don’t rage war on the mushrooms because, even though they raid their supplements, mushrooms understand the needs of a tree.
The trees anticipate for rainfall.
I’ve written scarlet letters, pages and pages in a yellowed book, about the seas, about grandiose jungles, about faraway deserts, about savannahs, about snowcapped mountains.
There’ll come soft rain when the time’s right but my fantasies are nothing but smoke, intangible and misted.
I’ll perish from old age, or a fall here. If I’m fortunate, I’ll be herded into the Games like a sheep meant for slaughter.
One way or another, my destiny’s written in the stars.
The trees don’t stop growing.
They flourish, they evolve, they rise.
I’m not at my zenith, there’re much more tragedies to overcome and it doesn’t consist of my father’s drunken fury, my mother’s tendency to covet things, my sister’s loss of innocence—I know the time will dawn when it’s time.
And, before it does, I need to bring my buds into bloom and uncurl my leaves into a spread.
The trees don’t die, but it’s effortless for an axe to bring their ultimate downfall.
What’s going to be my axe?
