Goddesses
fall for desire and paint for lust
they must’ve risen from the ashes
that burnt down their trees centuries before
crippling forward because today was never
a promise as tomorrow never came.
crawling, yawning, urging, as they inch further
down the abyss of the meadow, a wind
carrying their songs of grace, of love, of pain,
and of longing for belonging.
the sirens are witnesses of the beautiful
resurrection and ugly truth. they come,
slowly, as they breathe in air of wet pine trees,
needles covering their feet.
it stings so sweet, like fruit,
ripening for hundreds of years,
their mouths,
adapting to a taste of sunshine,
red desire, and deep melodies of love.
heirs of the forest, looms of softness,
needles of familiarity.
this time, inviting,
the zodiac of a tree whisperer, lake conquerer,
and earth connoisseur.
a song of gloomy winters and rainfall
in the field. a song of pain, of loss.
their urge forbidden, to be silenced
by the winds, accepted by the goddesses
of stealth and wisdom. gods and war.
gods and lies. gods and truth, all here for
a picture, a picot, carefully painted
into the deep blue skies by hands holding a harp.
stringing, straining, the strings.
one bow. one bows. someone,
destined to fall under the mercy of clouds
and the hands of a companion.
together, interconnected, separated by fate.
a broken wing, one hollow, holy window.
the sun kissing strongly what was left behind.
a desire, unfathomable,
until they reunite.
a chase for the light,
to the meadow of belonging.
to the cold stones of warmth,
and the embrace of winds.
a goddess. a god.
old souls.
forever. there ever.
Thank you for reading this poem. If a line resonated with you, or sparked some thought, I would love to know in the comment section below.
Love always,
Şevval