September 8, 2022 by petrujviljoen
It was time. The sky was closing in. Her bruises against the blue expanse a dark weather forming. She found the will to open the stone her heart became, observed with terror the extent of her wretchedness, at first seeping.
A clap of thunder, (was that her?): the rock-face, seared, crumbled, the scar a cavern where the shock of her inbreath pooled. The storm of wind dislodged the paralysis, met and fed the wail of pain: call me Eve! The scream rose, melded with the clouds above the mountain she had to leave, the fresh foundation of her life shattered.
Heavy water gathered, (heaven agreed) exploded onto the site of her undoing, swamping the insults, the slurs, the shame made public, piled upon the very shame she meant to heal: she dared defend a sense of holy space; usurped by a terrible ego, the ugly maleness of greed, bloated with a misplaced self, leaving it forever hungry.
The mountain bent its head, lent its crown to the onslaught, lightning ignited the beams of gold that was meant to be.
The After not the nothing of a Buddha, not the emptiness of peace but a sunken mountain, the river left unclean.
Linked to Twiglet 293