This is the super very first draft of Mother of all things wild and not and I remember really hating it, because it felt weirdly presumptious (&granted, it kind of is). But reading it back now as I'm backing my computer, I actually like it a lot. Whoopie 8]
A boy rests his head on a flowerbed of forget-me-not's a burning summer afternoon.
She watches how the stream trickles into glowing spots of molten gold;
an altar around his swollen face.
Orpheus sleeps.
His nose crinkles like a newborn child's, and so She sees his dreams of coral plots of land,
of his copper kin beautiful as nymphs curving weeds out of his Mother's skin;
She feels their roots calling for its grasp, then dying gently in palms unknown.
Death is a peace offering for those with too little contempt for the things they want from the Cosmos, She thinks.
once more her form corrupts itself and she becomes the taps of the bare feet of a girl walking into the Blinding light, so Foreign to one accustomed only to the frost of the shadows of the Meadows of the Dead;
Dead?
Through the golden light a melted child Reaches
in the direction of a Thirst so Familiar
She bleeds Her Love but there is no more to give
Her palms are cracked and full of wilted flowers,
Her feet graze the harsh floor of cutting gems;
Destiny?
There is nothing to Give to someone so much more finite than her,
and yet her blistered arms reach further to the form.
Why must they Hurt so much?
She weeps; Orpheus, Orpheus.
Why must they Hurt so much?
There is nothing more to Give.
Destiny weeps Love, it adorns the tunnel as it falls;
She understands again how every stone is made of adoration.
A city built from stones She sacrificed.
She weeps, for there is nothing she could do but weep.
None is there to Give.
The son of Muse turns his unsure pupil onto Her, and Destiny becomes nothing more, then everything, again.
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