Passively feeling the scent of the clouded rose garden – penetrated by rays of the morning sun, piercing the dowry of “once was.”
Innocuous to the tumultuous wake of the tempest stirring the air in the realms of “being” and “becoming;” as having struck the heart of the standing armies with a clipped nail of the smallest left finger, they cry-out with gentle moans of understanding – feigning the cooing dove having left the garden for a sheltering tree.
This is the tightened drum,
… and the beating of the tightened drum,
… and the singing of the beating of the tightened drum,
… and the echoing of the singing of the beating of the tightened drum,
… and the silence between the echoing of the singing of the beating of the tightened drum,
As the loins ache for birthing flesh of clinging bereavement on this pregnant occasion, there is a pause to reflect upon the garden of roses; upon the olive tree once stood, with the scent that felt of perfect calm before the eye of the storm… the tempest… tempting to defile the illusions of a great battle as this world is created.
… in the silence between the echoing.
… in the echoing of the singing.
… in the singing of the beating.
… in the beating.
… of the drum.
… and the drum is tight.
The drum bowl of olive wood and the human skin stretched – just birthed – sounding by way of its emptiness.
The tempting, the temptation, the clinging of flesh to a sensationalized spirit of “once was” as the dowry is spent and the child has died.
Sit in the rose garden in tranquil abiding and beat the drum, as the ticking of time means to frolic with the dove’s flight; and know that the illusion is the bereaved faces for “never was” and the symbolic rose is loves enduring shelter.
Understand, and make peace with its thorns. Appreciate the sensuality of its blossoms – the silky softness of the petals, moistened with mourning’s dew drops; euphoric perfume, its redness as lips in passion of the approaching tenderness. ‘Tis not human; but is made of the same stuff.
by Cimi Skywalker
13 May 2013