My vision floods with green.
Green grass, green sea, green cypress.
Pleasure stings. My heart aches. So many words left unsaid as my confusion catches on the wind, dissolves in ocean foam.
Welcome to the land of not knowing.
A seabird glides over the water, just like the one three springs ago.
My youth slips through my fingers. When will you dare to love the riches at your feet? All I want is to sit here with you beneath this tree, watching the world turn on. I do not need to be good. I do not need to be healed. I just need to let the raw belly of my being see the light again.
Do you not realize you have always been sitting underneath this tree with me? I have waited patiently, for a thousand years, for you to look up from your lap — where you poke and prod at the shame you carry.
I have been here, the second pen after your ink runs dry. I have been here, in the muffled sorrow you thought you would drown in. I have been here.
Turn now to the low drum of your belly. Feel the blood rushing through your veins.
This is the land of not knowing.
And yet, you do know. What is the knowing that you disown?
Freedom and anguish, electrifying thunder. Lonely cafe mornings in Venice, wailing in the dead of the night. Rainstorm in Costa Rica, foggy cloud forest.
Let it pour out of you like sweet black honey. Let it roll out of you, unencumbered, the wrathful rage, the silent scream, the weeping of your soul. The poetry begs to be heard. I can no longer save you from yourself. I am no longer willing to wage this war.
How many generations I have lost, how much Love I have sacrificed, how much pain swallowed, unmet, unfelt.
No more.