The Quiet Processing
: Stitched in Orion’s Belt
New energy, I’m told, lies within a tired head,
but woven in the seams,
this candlelight burns dim.
Flying saucers…
caught in the naked eye of night.
Flashes of green,
an energetic aura
soaring across a starry sky.
An 1800s telescope lens,
scratched beyond modern repair,
an antique now,
resting in imagination’s hands.
And still, we revel.
It led us here.
It left us there..
to wrestle vines of ivy’s connective weaves
and leaves; threads unseen.
Little beacons of flickered light
cast a shadow on the river’s downstream flow.
At my feet, the edge before me…
a glimmer of something perpendicular
from the river’s sister edge.
Fallen treetop lollipops
licked the breaks of water,
smashing rocks.
A shining glimmer of glass
caresses this water’s body surface.
Toe taps ripple circles in motion…
this shallow edge resembling
just one too many fractured mirrors,
just beneath a silent moon.
Is that a fractured mirror?
Who was she? He?
Were they who shifted features…
maybe not so typical,
perhaps a little sovereign?
Hiding catastrophes
and dancing in the shadows?
No returns right now,
wearing last year’s designer label.
Through the cracks in broken glass,
pupils stare like silent wolves,
eager for the kill.
Sunken bags. Purple veins.
The body keeps its story.
This.
Is the quiet processing.
Tales untold unfold.
Every stitch, every pull…
threaded reality,
tight drapes wrapped
around my altered state.
Bubble wrap lacing.
Breath so shallow.
Swallow. Gulps.
Minor pride,
awaiting some form of approval.
To them,
it’s just your dressing day.
But when buried treasures leak
from scars that shaped the past in time,
healing bleeds and sheds…
like snakeskin,
sinking deep into earth’s heart and core.
Nurtured in deformity.
Quicksand.
Still…
ferns will grow where they may.
No season to please,
No season to forgive.
Only seasons to be.
Burrows of insects
slept to decay,
awaiting the scents of spring.
And then…
finality begins to scream.
A heightened power
rises from the womb
of Mother Earth herself.
Awakes when your sole hits her land
And she quietly asks:
will you please let me in?
This is quiet processing.
The seams of my forever being
stitched in Orion’s Belt.
About the Creator
faline salisburg
I turn my pain into an alchemy of healing. I write from emotions needing to move within me and by automatically allowing my emotions and mind to channel my higher power; I am always in awe at the end of my writing in what I have created.💗
Keep reading
More stories from faline salisburg and writers in Writers and other communities.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.