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Open Poetry #50
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In Pursuit of Quintessence – II
| Open Poetry #50 |
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In Pursuit of Quintessence – II |
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JerryPat2 Member Laureate
since 2011-02-06
Posts 16975South Louisiana 
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To prepare for this voyage, this journey into the wasteland of my sorrows, my desires, my eternal soul I seclude myself in a forest tall. My eternal soul. Easy to say. People say it all the time. Eternal soul. I'm not sure we even have a soul, much less an eternal one. As far as I know no one has ever seen a soul, some might say they have felt their own souls. Not sure about that either. Could've been indigestion. As I prepare for my odyssey I withdraw into the forest tall, concealed from sight, listening to the soft screams of leaves that fall. What am I to do here, out of my element? Look for guidance, direction and courage I suppose. But instead of beseeching the forest tall for these skills I go down on one knee and weep. While in my posture of sub-servitude my tears dry upon my face, turn into hard rock pebbles and fall from my cheeks sounding like gentle raindrops as they collided with reverence on the forest floor. My hardened tears falling soft as a whisper on the forest floor. Is that an omen? Does that mean I have been forgiven, and if so, forgiven for which act unbecoming to a civilized man? I think not, no, I believe I've passed some kind of test. I stood and followed where my feet took me, deep, much deeper, into the thickness of my personal jungle. As I tread, mindful of the chattering around me, understanding, even answering the denizens who lived where I had came, unannounced, to visit. They spoke to me not as friends, no, they bid me leave their home, the forest tall. I tarried, unafraid, but mindful of changes within. When, out of the blue a wind frigid as Wyoming winter undressed my mind, and left it naked, indefensible but not unable to tell that the world had taken on quite a different appearance. Somber is the word, if indeed an appearance can be said to be somber. Without conscious thought my feet began to walk as a deafening crack of thunder cleaved the sky apart, and biblical torrents of rain assaulted the forest tall. I stumbled blindly through the violent flow of rain, breathing in quick gasps because this was rain like none before. Noah's perhaps. Holding a hand over my mouth to keep from breathing in rainwater, drowning as I walked. When suddenly I found myself inside a structure tar black inside. There was no rain, but there were smells so rank, so putrid, I turned to flee back into the choking rain, I'd rather drown standing than smell my own rotting flesh. No way out. Both entrances sealed off. How could that be? Someone giggled. I felt a cold breath on my neck. The giggling stopped. An old crone's voice shrieked, This ain't yer grade school picnic, Charlie, my boy. ©July 9, 2010 / Jerry Pat Bolton ~ If they give you ruled paper, write sideways. ~ |
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| © Copyright 2018 Jerry Pat Bolton - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Lori Grosser Rhoden Member Patricius
since 2009-10-10
Posts 10202Fair to middlin' of nowhere |
Way cool Jerry! Digging up some gold from 2010! ~L |
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JerryPat2 Member Laureate
since 2011-02-06
Posts 16975South Louisiana |
Many thanks, my friend. Yeah, I dug deep for this one, Lori. ~ If they give you ruled paper, write sideways. ~ |
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