Wiseman - A poem about pillaging men taking the knee to Mother Mary
Wiseman
(The Hardness of Man Meet the Mother to Death/Forgiveness)
By IVY
Wiseman
crawls his cowardly and callus body across the desert, starving for the fire to
sweat his warlike slavery out of addiction. Pathetic in his chasing dreams, he reeks
of flesh, having lost his heart, stolen out of his chest, he grieves the fire
of his mother to destroy his destroying hands, sweating the taste of foul play,
a game he played for the win of lifeless money. The fire strikes the bush where
he awaits death, awaiting the snake to take him out. His harden eyes shock
awake as his life force erupts while his frozen body throws him into dismantled
bones, crackling spine, skin sliding off like a sly fox tearing at flesh, detaching
his navel from his pelvis as his hips smash into screams of the pitch black
with nothing but the red fire of a massive exploding sun. The shadows of beasts
wind his silent fire to stop his ashes from soaking the earth. The roots of him
deepen down to touch the apex of the mighty womb of nothing, city of red dust.
Ash consumes the gulping earth as wings of the eagle take his meat, flying what’s
left of him towards the forest of rain. BANG, thunder, lightning, bolts upon
bolts electrify the dirt where the mountain and ocean speak. The wiseman
cascades onto the riverbank, out of the steam of desert into the roar of
waterfalls, surrendering himself to the sea of stormy forgiveness. The red of
raging fire, full of ignorant dies, the royal blue flame, flaming by the river
smokes the foul taste, foolish sight, broken hearing, numb feeling and gross
smell through the pipe of the flute conceiving bluebells with the earthing
sound. The rising wiseman, ascends the seaweed stepping into the river, where
his shell breaks against the ridged crash. The smoking Native sees his silhouette,
dying spirit return to Earth with the smoker pipe chanting the darkness into existence.
The wiseman penetrates his eyes with the royal blue moon without pain or memory
of pain. The fractured falseness is held onto no more. He rests comfortably in
his archer’s posse reaching the stars, collapsing them down into his open
palms. He eats meteorites with wild beastly sounds ruffling the forest with his
unshakable touch of Mother Mary, leaving him to transform his aching tears into
the river where life begins anew.