These roots run underground.
Dark and bound.
Deep and Wound.
Under the fretful sea,
Of both you and me-
And our wayward philosophy.
These roots have veins;
Veins lined with unencumbered histories.
These roots have rivers;
Rivers that end in your mysteries.
Yet these roots;
They wither and make no sound-
With backs hunched like a mound,
When forced into our calloused dives-
Where no essence is to be found.
And we? We are simply the hound,
Cankering their hallowed ground.
We can shape them,
Twist them and mould them.
We can harness the beauty of patience-
And see it in their form.
Instead:
Instead we make them mourn.
Make them look up to an empty sky.
Empty of their sisters-
For whom they searched for
And found nothing more –
Than a listless breeze,
Blowing at a phantom core.
How would you like to be-
-Immovable-
Immovable in your past-
No shadow of yours to be cast,
Slowly starving from the unrelenting fast.
Forced to see –
Leaves not coming into green,
Losing their sheen.
While you lay…
Forever unseen?
Centuries of secrets they may keep;
And yes they may weep-
But don’t you be fooled-
Because these roots-
Ha-ha these roots run deep.
