this soil

this descrated soil

is nothing

but a barren wasteland

desolate of hope

desolate of joy

nothing is alive

nothing can survive

nothing but this pain

no seedling can take root

in this contaminated ground

polluted by the toxins

dumped upon it

by the hands of violation

the only thing that grows

rooted so deep beneath the surface

is this gnarled and twisted tree of shame

i have tried to chop it down

but its tenacious shoots grow back


and again

i chop

and chop

but i can’t dig all the roots

and my arms are growing weary

oh so weary

so i’ll just lie down here to rest

in this desolate place

where silence echoes

and stillness lurks

and as the darkness overcomes

the only sound heard

is the mourning of my soul

so terribly soft and low

as these twisting branches

wind their way around my neck

strangling me at last

and there is nothing

once again


but the silence

1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Trackback: very early healing pieces « Emmaatlast’s Weblog

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M.C. Reardon


Emmaatlast's Weblog

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