The Secret Garden (NaPoWriMo Day 19 – Creation Myth)

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She walked the path at that place of emptiness codified…
Where monuments speak in glints of dappled light on crumbling limestone; where the wind cries out the name of the lonely, where the north summers in lost twilights. Under the shadow of those ruins, she picked wildflowers as flies hummed to the rhythm of her footsteps. This was an abandoned place. Here she felt she finally belonged. Like she’d been here before…

When the mood struck it, the sky occasionally kneeled down to kiss her brow which was smooth and cool as marble. The ellipses and circles she traversed inside the garden’s inner labyrinth bore the scars where Earth had clashed with Hades, leaving intricate patterns like medallions of honor carved deep into the earth’s bed – it read like the alphabet of some lost ancient tongue, a sibilant Mother coiling around the embryo of the forgotten word; from dirt-level – pure nonsense, the meaningless scrawlings of an illiterate child, fleeting as dreams, meant only to be seen by sequoia treed sentinels standing at Heaven’s gate…

Still, as her feet traced those strange walkways, she felt thoughts being etched and colored like stained-glassed panes. These were vitrine illusions… mullioned… mosaics of moments recollected shattered and pieced together in her kaleidoscope mind. Thoughts peeking beneath the pleats of Time’s skirts with a Catholic schoolgirl flirt. Sheaves of dancing lights revealing her with searchlight eyes, splicing her mind open, buttering her like a hot loaf of freshly baked bread, she could feel the magic of its music tromboning in her chest cavity, rivering through her veins… napalming her synapses… this was the music of tears, of fears, of what was lived and then unlived…

She stopped at the furthest most edge of herself, and watched her reflection in the garden’s pond; glittering like koi, her resolution swam upstream. Memory pressed wantonly between her thighs. Vaulting over mists, crossing synapses like bridges, her doubts and denials emerged dragon-like and protective, guarding the jewel of her falling water; to light a candle is to cast a shadow – every exhalation of breath is a mini-death: an expiration giving birth to other possibilities yet to be shown… or known,  but the marred conception of purity opened her third eye wide, revealing the inception tree:

Reality – like fingerprints on the cookie jar – accused, then identified her Truth.

 

 

 

 

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One Comment Add yours

  1. M says:

    memory is always naughty, like that. what a lux pen you’ve woven ~

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