#dryad
A faded memory flayed.
Layers peeled back unveiling
Frayed old strings for a symphony of sympathy.
A suffocated cacophony, he says. Let it be.
A jaded sentinel slayed.
Players reeled back, unfailing.
Prayed for wings, but found empty of empathy.
The scintillating epiphany she shares set it free.
I swore I’d never be the victim.
But I have been the whole time.
Those words are wiser than wisdom.
Her eyes grow wider with mine.
A notion inspiring devotion divine.
An ocean of new truths all spoken in rhyme.
My Dryad’s mydriasis is something sublime.
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 7:19 AM UTC
Walk along the riverbed.
You will come upon a nymph,
Aged and smooth
As a riverstone
Sighing and singing with
The water’s flow
Ask her, “How are you, Nymph?”
And she will
Smile
Up at you and say
“I am but a tired soul
In a tired sea
Of tired souls.”
Her voice the soft bubbling of the river.
Walk among the trees.
You will come upon a dryad,
Ridged and furrowed
As the tree limb
Upon which she sat as she watched
The leaves fall with the autumn breeze
Ask her, “How long have you sat here, Dryad?”
And she will
Gaze
Down at you and say
“I grow and grow old
With the tree.
And the tree has grown tired.”
Her voice the raspy crinkle of the fallen leaves.
Walk amidst the flowers.
You will come upon a deva,
Light and sweet
As the honeysuckle she sat amongst
Watching and humming with
The many bees
Ask her, “Who are you, Deva?”
And she will
Frown
Away from you and say
“We, those of us that
Belong
To this place,
We are Afraid.
And we wish to no longer be Afraid.”
Her voice the wavering stems of delicate flowers.
The nymph chokes on her sisters' remains as
the dryad is cut down and shredded and the deva is
forced into restrained clay pots.
They cannot be freed by one
but by the response
of all.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 8:46 PM UTC
under the sludge of this depression, I am awake. it’s morning outside but that doesn’t change a thing.
tiredness takes me to quiet places. I follow like I’m devout.
this forest is new. there’s a drumming of a heartbeat within the trunks of these trees.
it thrums under my fingertips. blood rushes forward to touch this rhythm.
songbirds nest, plume against plume for love and for rest. the birdsong is sweet as saccharine.
I taste the sap on my lips, its nectar, thick with agape. a salve for myriad laments under the roof of a single bell jar.
the indigo sky convulses, telling of fortunes. the clouds retch gilded roses.
blades of grass fence the circumferences of leaves in gypsy winds. the forest warms like a flame.
my body sways in solipsistic wonder. the crescents of my nails are crusted with lichen.
my limbs are drawn into its boughs, like gravity. like the bark is starved.
my mind is foliage and my crown is littered with inflorescence. my sky is finally cerulean and lilac.
each gall is an ancient hurt. each wound is a knot.
I breathe my mourning. I wait to bloom.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 3:07 AM UTC
.
*When a Dryad cries …
… the bright red leaves
drip
and the tree stands
in a pool
of blood
… forest green leaves
drip
and the tree stands
in a pond
of heartbreak
… red and green leaves
drip
and the tree stands
in a lake
of sorrow
There is no sadder song
than when a tree dies,
there is no deeper grief
than when a Dryad cries.*
© Pagan Paul (01/07/18)
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 12:11 PM UTC