Some people have the freedom to write.
I steal mine.
I steal away in the hours, and often times,
Only in spare minutes.
If, it were not him...
Then it is the world nonetheless.
You see,
He too,
Is threatened by them. The words. Their held world's of meaning-
The threat and fear that mine might corral within him.
He is like that with everything that is light energy to me;
With everything that I use to heal myself,
and commune with God.
Mocking it.
Riling against it, his demons egg on his wrath.
...but I can feel it.
An explosion already ashing both our worlds,
Raining volcanic dust.
Now I flow,
In a steady hot melt, rivers of orange already formed to their new path.
Steady.
As, as, the notions arise...stir a belly looming
Hot and notorious
He lended me a branch,
Off of himself...
And said now...
"Here write".
And he dipped the branch, of it's own milky glue
In ash...
And he gifted me,
What for centuries
I had needed most.
A way to turn this wrath, and these flaming underworlds
Into steady palate's of life.
And with a couple more shaves of his skin,
upon something, I now had a place to write.
As it happens...
There are ages and centuries of stories,
She had kept in the milennia inside,
He knew upon her explosion..
The exact purpose of him at last,
Born by her side.
Her rivers passed, her Rowan Dear...
They twisted about to see to that.
And there, they would last
Centuries more,
A New turn forever in their Love.
In their trust.
In hers.
For he had gifted her what in time had been so long lost.
A way
To express
Her combust.
A means...
To understand it.
As it would go,
Today they, there, still stand.
The Rowan
Next to a Lava Flow.
Dormant she often stay,
But not inactive.
She...
For now...
Just merely
Asleep.
For she wrote,
and wrote,
For decades and years after him.
and now she rests upon that purge.
Within it.
Until it is time once more...
To
Emerge.
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