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Original Content
Original Image: Angel Oak (The tree is 400-500 years old) - John's Island, South Carolina
Not really sure why I decided on these photos of the Angel Oak for this poem, but it seems fitting to me.
Hands fastened to the end of your tank top,
unwrapping the belly,
placing right cheek on surface,
skin embrace,
fingertips on sternum,
ears listening,
eyes closed,
warmth,
lulling.
lethargy,
wisp of consciousness,
a soft whisper,
banish the imp.
The battle hymn of an internal war,
here thoughts are king,
dystopia,
mischievous,
unscrupulous murmurs,
the seven deadly sins,
reigning monarch,
fallen foes,
conquests are invisible,
grasping,
clinging,
clawing,
your crown.
endless warfare,
scars are hidden,
the human condition,
suffering,
deep suffering,
the pain of the universe,
all begins with you.
Now, wake.
This one is growing dense, growing wet and wild, somehow. Maybe by force, maybe by photo, whatever. "Lethargy,
wisp of consciousness" still sustain the poem.
Thanks for reading and resteeming! means alot.
Welcome. And thank you for dense piece of writing.
Upvoted and resteemed, of course :) .