needacomb

She was born A woman of the tides Of dancing flames Of boundless depths And of fleeting mysteries. On days like this She exhaled deep Blue And shivered White. Her locks shook off The dust Of things Forgotten. Especially on hotter days, She glowed bright Sunlight. Her lips burned Crimson And she danced on coals Screaming to the skies To echo Thunder. But in grayer seasons, She lay still, Obstinate like stone, Asleep while it rained And washed around Her face like dew on the Green. There were rosy days, However. She bloomed into a Pink And smiled with Fluttering eyes, Knowing fully well How things wil

Land of my fathers Of my Great Mother Majestic, womanly, divine, She lies quietly to her rest. Weary. It was only then We knew, Trembling in her sleep, Her quake that humbles us, Brings us to our knees. We cower in fear. Her dreams are disturbed She weeps and drowns us In our safe places. Our bodies submerged In her salt. Her nightmares, disturbing. The men of the land Are at the mercy Of her dark psyche. What then, they ask, is enough? Enough quiet? Enough fire? Enough tears? Blood? She is insatiable. The elders gathered. They bickered. Manipulated. But all those tricksters knew The crucial answer That none c