There once was a stone Maker,
Of eponymous resolve,
Through every creative endeavor,
Had a conundrum to solve.
He had journeyed from mountain birthplace,
Looking for love of sound and sight,
If he could not find it’s existence,
He’d construct it from earth and light.
He had traveled for an eternity,
His inspiration began to diminish,
He just wanted to rest his stony form,
Yet one last thing to finish.
In his heart he felt hopeless,
In his drive he felt unbridled rage,
Every empty landscape a canvas,
Every silent vista a cage.
He came upon an ocean cliff side,
Where the sun touched glistening ground,
Real possibility he did imagine,
In this fortuitous scape he found.
So he planted a vigorous seedling,
A gift from mother creation,
And he fed it his knowledge and emotion,
Then he waited with anticipation.
The seedling rose up from the soil,
To meet the amber imbued sky,
It sprout full leaves of promise,
Then let out a mournful cry.
“Oh young tree, I name you Willow
And I breathed into you precious life,
Why do you cry so, have I harmed you?
What causes you this obvious strife?”
The tree slowed her heavy tears,
And sniffled her weeping sap,
Then swayed in the wind towards him,
Until it rest in his earthy lap.
“Oh maker of mine, how I love thee,
In your kindness you gave gifted life,
But these feelings you bequeath are unbearable,
And they cut at my core like a knife.”
“You gave me love and inspiration unending,
In the world reflected, this I see,
But there is this hidden notion unsurfaced,
That I in my very being, should not be.”
“For I feel your sadness and longing,
And your truth roots itself rather deep,
If this feeling has to linger within me,
It is something you can’t expect me to keep.”
“For I am just a simple innocent tree,
And all I know is fledgling truth,
This sadness is meant for weary souls,
and not one so ignorant in it’s youth.”
The Maker was mortified beyond words,
at exactly what he had wrought,
Such grief he had created with carelessness,
Without even a glancing thought.
“I have corrupted the pure,
I have tainted her soul,
with the immeasurable darkness,
I have halved what is whole.”
” I watch now in anguish and despair,
as my willow tree rots, yes she withers,
All the promises meant for dreamers and lovers,
flow away like eroding, poisoned rivers.”
“I have doomed her to pain and depression ,
In my arrogance I failed, I now know,
Be at peace, my encumbered willow tree,
No more shall I bestow.”
So he constructed an axe from his forearm,
And swung it with unquestionable brawn,
He sliced through her bark, deep to her core,
Like the sun splits the glorious dawn.
She screamed out in heart wrenching agony,
“Father, oh what now have you done?
Am I so unworthy of this newfound life,
that you’d rather I have none?”
And he shed his last tear in surrender,
and bewildered, responded in kind
“When I am gone I don’t want you to suffer,
the damage I have done to your mind.”
” You deserved so much more than this,
oh you wondrously naive little tree,
and I’d rather you not exist with this torment,
then have you grow into a semblance of me.”
His arm reached back the steering edge,
casting a shadow upon the trailing hill,
then down, shattering the poor willow’s heart,
until finally she was silent, and still.
The maker felt utterly downtrodden,
and he fell to his world weary knees,
and wailed until the sun sputtered out,
and brought on the chilling winter’s freeze.
Many eons have passed since that moment,
and the cries over the cliffs yet remain,
If you go to sate apprehensive curiosity,
you’ll be haunted and embraced by the rain.
For out at the edge of our dream state,
lies a withered tree and sulking stone,
the willow who felt perpetual sadness,
and the maker, defeated, fell prone.
He had love and destroyed,
What he wrought from his mind,
It tortured him so completely
he became lifeless in kind.
So the maker and his child,
forever encased in sullen skies,
overlook an ocean of tears,
until existence herself dies.
Do not create what you will not nourish
Do not pass on what cannot flourish
Do not share feelings if they only cause pain
Do not curse at the sun for it only brings rain.
- Poetry: Sometimes Words Hurt - December 15, 2019
- Poetry: Who I Know Myself to Be - December 9, 2019
- Poetry: How Do You Know? - November 8, 2019
