Its been a couple busy months, but I’m back, with another gem from the vault.
These were the ancient days
She said in the shades
As her nerve endings reached up from the earth
They were broken, dead and in hibernation
In the cold November sky
And her memories were rife
With the smell of decay
And the blood she fed the hundreds of thousands
She swallowed up at the end of their lives
They walked her lands
These old people
These children of the earth
They lived and died in the cold brutality
Of the earliest hunting tribes
Whose very law was survival
As hers had always been.
Early warriors waged a war with the ghosts of their land,
Holographic forms from another time.
Things the shaman knew not,
For its age was far beyond their own.
But hers was an ancient earth
When it was new,
And she showed me the visions of her memories
The memories of the trees
And of the water as it carved out
The trenches in the hills
The people of the red death,
Who left their mark upon the flesh of their enemies
Swallowed their souls
And poured their blood into the caverns of this landscape
Marking the graves in ochre.
Old tales speak of the need to bury the bones,
But what brother has done to brother
Is engulfed and forgotten,
By the swallowing and swelling of the earth,
Until only she remembers.