Part I:
Awoke at dawn,
My boots warm from the night’s fire,
Donned are my gloves and coat,
For on this morning I walk… into forests of no resolve
Within the shadows of my brethren I travel,
Oh father of the wood,
The fleeting yet triumphant power of divine maple, birch, ash and oak,
Mercurial in your deciduous charm,
Oh mother conifer- your presence a languid constant,
Of spruce and hemlock and cedar and majestic pine,
It is in this place that I find solace,
And on this morning I walk… into forests of no resolve,
My solace is broken by the approach of a sullen, grey figure,
Its eyes are blind and lifeless but its expression seems so familiar,
It beckons me closer and I follow- we amble down a path of my making,
At the end of that path we come to a great ash- awash in amaranthine glow,
Branches unfurled- the nine spheres clutched tight in their grasp,
I close my eyes and hold my breath in these forests of no resolve,
I open my eyes to the grinning of the grey figure,
Gesturing toward a great distant excavation rife with the scent of death,
I stumble closer to a great upturning of earth as if entering a newly sewn plot of grain,
The soil soft beneath my step- death’s saplings protrude from the macabre,
Crooked bones jutting in a most undignified fashion,
A grizzly gallery of a soul so and too far gone,
On my knees I weep in these forests of no resolve,
What could be the origin of this madness? I plead to the grey figure,
My confidant points skyward to the great tree bathed in twilight’s halo,
Oh feral Igdrisyll, tell me of thine forked plight,
And with your answer I shall finally come to see,
That time is the monster and the monster is me,
I die alone in forests of no resolve.
Part II:
Of hazed form,
In dark I keep,
Devoid of starshine,
In soil be the blood of my secret,
My secret… Garden
As soil fills with blood,
Coil comes undone,
The tree attains it’s fruit,
Dead seeds I’ve lain to fertile ground,
Will they grow or only haunt my dreams?
My secret garden,
As soil becomes blood,
As blood returns to soil,
The soul remains,
Enter a world of leaves,
A nightmare sight to never cease,
Enter this wood in which I keep,
Where roots feed on the pain the tree hath reaped,
Enter the impetus of pain,
A moonless night of never ending rain,
Burdened celebrant of this offering night,
Writhe as dead fruit upon the thorn while the tree of pain grows high,
Dead seeds I plant beneath the tree,
Grief laid sewn,
Grief laid sewn
In my garden…
My secret garden…
Part III:
Hollow husks that we are - grains in the wind to be blown,
Tempest winds will blow- sets the world on fire,
Desiccated roots clawing for oasis tide,
Oasis tide…
I wait alone for cleansing tide,
Thine time resides- on rough hewn shrine
I pluck the dead fruit- from arboreal grave,
Thy will thine bidding- crimson pitch cascades,
I claw your name into your tomb,
Then claw mine own right next to you,
Right next to you
I wait alone for a cold sweet rain,
A cleansing balm to stay the stain,
On these heavy vines I kneel and pray,
Thy will thine bidding- call… my… name,
To grow alone- with hollow roots,
To die alone- like grains that know no wind,
Tempest winds have blown- sets the world on fire,
Desiccated roots clawing for oasis tide.
