The Threnody And The Flower

I.

A jade fog, upset
and abscessed, crumpled
over the hills. The Stranger, with
an unclean sword, chased the
near-dead evil to the brink.

Spilling into a steeper
valley, caught in an earthen well,
the mist gurgled as if a’boil,
curdling as it died.

An acidic incense
of black-salt bacteria
permeated the land,
greenery paled–the villagers
clipped their breath and ran.

Oily fungus sprouted
upward three inches,
dissolving in a
self-made decay.

Platinum clouds opened
their warring bellies,
and the cruel orchard
was washed away.

The Stranger, victorious,
traced a limp path
to the village…

II.

Fear, greed, land, luxury–all
had voted. The Council had
decided,

“Heroism has never come with-
out a price, and this incident
will only strain our feeble budget.”

“Such a ferocious killer
can only be delivered
by a most clever treachery.”

“Do not fear your
conscience, for grief
will thaw in time with
the new spring.”

III.

…several hours later,
blind by wine and fantasy;
The Stranger was killed.

Too late he realized,
her charity would
be his deceiver.

The Stranger felt the
diseased steel enter his
lung, forfeit his life.

He slumped shallow
with erratic inhalation,
a hollow scarecrow
begging for straw.
Butterfly eyelids stilled.

IV.

She had slayed the slayer,
her daughter’s savior;
The Stranger who had
struck down The River Serpent.

As several stars came out
from hiding, she wandered,
into the wildflower fields,
collecting medicines
to help her sleep.

Arriving home late,
she calmed the children
with simple lies of Strangers,
impartial roads, and brevity.

Their questions made
her turn away, but still
they saw the claw marks
from her tears.

V.

The shovels scraped
in the middle of the night,
the battled breath of
a dying warrior.

The elders covered
their ears and sipped
spirits until it had stopped,
at last allowed a chance
for frayed slumber.

The daughter did not sleep.
Set strides led her, to the woods-edge,
with transparent toes. Smells of
unstitched soil overshaded
the scents of growth.

She whispered in solitude,
and placed at the crude grave:
cooked rice, fresh water, and silent thanks.
A purple breeze, laced
with echoes, flooded the
forest floor and lapped
at her bare ankles.

Humble shivers dripped
between her shoulders,
and her lips beckoned
a lullaby before
returning home,

Lotus, on the velvet water,
your roots are anchored deep.
Your simple life remains unchanged,
if roots you wish to keep.
But if you pulse a freer heart,
and brave the unknown day;
be strong, be smart, and live your most,
for soon you’ll float away.